OVERLAND 

and 

UNDERGROUND 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


OVERLAND 

AND 

UNDERGROUND 


THE   AUTHOR 


OVERLAND 


AND 


UNDERGROUND 


D 


POEMS  OF  THE  WEST 
AND  ITS  MINES 


By 
D.  G.  THOMAS 


Privately  Printed 

ROCK  SPRINGS,  WYOMING 

1912 


COPYRIGHT  1912 

by 
D.  G.  THOMAS 

Rock  Springs,  Wyoming 


Printed  and  Bound  by 

THE  FAITHORN  COMPANY 

CHICAGO 


IV 


TO 
MY  WIFE  AND  DAUGHTER 

I  DEDICATE 
THIS  BOOK 

These  poems,  the  children  of  my 

brain,  were  born,  as  you  know, 

between    shifts.      I    am    aware 

that  they  lack  in  many  of  the 

essentials  which  go  or  ought  to 

go  into  a  work  of  this  character; 

but   I  have  done  my  best   to 

make    them    acceptable  to 

you  and  to  those  of  my 

friends  who  will  read 

them   on   that 

account. 

THE  AUTHOR 


FOREWORD 

/TMiE  Coleridge  definition  of  poetry,  "The  best  words 
X,    in  the  best  order,"  may  be  adequately  judged  by  a 
literary  standard,  but    the  "Song   of  the   Soul"  would 
much  more  regard  the  substance  than  the  form. 

"Overland  and  Underground"  is  the  epitome  of  a 
life  begun  in  poverty  at  nine  years  of  age  as  a  trap- 
door boy  in  a  coal  mine,  and  after  a  thorough  course 
in  the  school  of  Hardknocks  with  Perserverance  as 
monitor  and  Experience  as  the  teacher,  completed  as 
Superintendent  of  great  mines  of  the  mighty  West. 

Despite  the  hardships  suffered,  the  cares  of  life 
have  never  been  able  to  interrupt  the  harmony  that 
has  always  existed  between  the  great  Celtic  heart  of 
the  author  and  Nature  in  all  her  moods  and  forms. 
His  human-nature  poems  show  that  in  his  rise  from 
bottom  to  top,  he  has  not  forgotten  those  who  have 
not  climbed  so  fast,  nor  lost  sympathy  for  them  and 
their  hard  cheerless  lot. 

Mr.  Thomas  has  spent  most  of  his  life  in  the  coal 
mines,  and  his  poems  relating  thereto  are  reflections 
of  his  own  experiences.  His  work  in  the  West  took 
him  to  the  mountains  of  Wyoming  where  he  learned 
to  love  Nature  in  a  new  form,  and  his  poems  of  the 
hills  express  this  affection. 


VI 


These  poems  are  written  by  a  miner  to  the  miners 
and  for  those  familiar  with  the  dark,  black  holes,  their 
people,  their  surroundings  and  their  tragedies,  they 
have  the  same  message  of  human  sympathy  and 
brotherhood  found  in  the  songs  of  Robert  Burns.  To 
have  seen  this  collection  grow  from  one  to  many,  to 
have  enjoyed  the  personal  friendship  of  the  author 
and  his  faithful  loving  wife  and  daughter,  to  have  seen 
him  overcome  tremendous  odds  and  win  in  the  fierce 
conflict  with  natural  inclination  and  vicious  environ- 
ment, has  been  a  great  privilege  and  my  extreme 
pleasure. 

JOSEPH  HENRY  SAYER. 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


Portrait  of  the  Author  3 

Fontenelle  33 

It's  Fishing  Time  54 

Washakie  65 

A  Mountain  Stream  66 

He  Was  the  Friend  of  Gentle  Peace  69 


viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Sunbeam  and  the  Dew  13 

Reagan's  Cabin  16 

Robert  Burns  19 

We'll  Go  To  Lancasheer  23 

Home  Again  From  Lancasheer  28 

Fontenelle  33 

James  Bridger  36 

Down  in  a  Coal  Mine  38 

The  Month  of  May  43 

The  Mine  Explosion  44 

Night  53 

It's  Fishing  Time  54 

Song  of  the  Air  in  the  Mine  55 

Joe  Black's  Trip  58 

On  Woman's  Rights  62 

Washakie  65 

The  Prospector  77 

The  Man  that  Fails  79 

Rock  Springs  82 

Dennis  Waters  96 

Simple  Joe  98 

To  My  Daughter  104 


IX 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

In  Memory  of  David  M.  Elias  105 

The  Whole  Story  109 

To  James  Needham  109 

To  a  Superior  Person  Singing  109 

The  Mountain  Ash  Choir  110 

Welsh  Service  111 

The  Workman's  Vision  112 

Goodbye,  Bill  115 

Progress  116 

When  I  Was  a  Lad  117 

Sweetheart,  I  Love  You  So  119 

Pretty  Annie  Jones  121 

The  Miner's  Lullaby  123 

Don't  Block  the  Wheels  of  Joy  125 


OVERLAND 

AND 

UNDERGROUND 


THE   SUNBEAM   AND   THE   DEW 

TVTIGHT  shook  her  garments,  and  a  shower 
•**^     Of  dewy  gems  fell  on  each  flower, 
Sparkling  beneath  the  moon-lit  skies 
As  love  does  in  a  maiden's  eyes. 

She  said  on  leaving  the  pearly  dew: 
"In  the  morning  I  shall  call  for  you, 
If  you  a  faithful  vigil  keep 
Nor  for  a  moment  go  to  sleep." 

They  play  and  in  a  chorus  sing 
Love  to  the  flowers  to  which  they  cling, 
And  now  and  then  they  slyly  peep 
To  see  if  any  have  gone  to  sleep. 

A  Breeze  came  from  his  home  somewhere 
And  sees  the  dew-drops  glistening  there, 
So  he  among  them  gently  creeps 
And  rocks,  and  rocks  till  each  one  sleeps. 


13 


SUNBEAM  AND  THE  DEW 


They  jsmile  as  children  do  in  dreams 
Lulled  by  the  Breeze  and  rippling  streams 
Blowing  and  flowing  in  accents  deep  — 
Soothing  the  dew  drops  in  their  sleep. 

At  last  the  dawn  with  noiseless  tread 
Comes  creeping  from  his  eastern  bed, 
Descending  from  the  mountain's  steep 
And  finds  the  dew-drops  fast  asleep. 

The  song  birds  make  the  woodlands  ring 
With  welcome  to  the  new  born  king 
Who  grandly  o'er  the  mountain  creeps, 
But  the  dew  unmindful,  ever  sleeps. 

The  grand  old  monarch  of  the  day 
Fills  the  earth  with  his  glad  array, 
While  night  with  many  a  hurried  leap 
Runs  off  and  leaves  the  dew  asleep. 


14 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  DEW 

He  sees  the  flowers  bedecked  with  gems 
From  tinted  leaves  to  slender  stems, 
And  hears  Night  in  the  distance  weep, 
Her  jewels  lost,  because  asleep. 

Over  the  flowers  a  moment  he  stops 
To  gather  the  shining  pearly  drops 
Lying  there  in  the  blossom's  keep 
Peacefully  dreaming,  fast  asleep. 

And  one  by  one  each  precious  gem 

He  places  on  his  diadem, 

Where  they  on  waking  from  their  dreams 

Were  changed  from  dew  to  bright  sunbeams. 


15 


REAGAN'S  CABIN 

'T^HE  Thunder  mountains  proudly  tower 
•*•      High  above  the  tallest  pines, 
Frowning  at  the  men  that  scar  them, 

Boring  in  their  sides  deep  mines; 
And  the  icy  blast  of  winter 

Fill  their  crevasses  with  snow, 
Which  the  summer  sun  releases 

To  the  streams  of  Idaho. 

There  the  lordly  Salmon  river 

Rushes  madly  to  the  main, 
Adding  streamlet  after  streamlet 

To  its  ever  swirling  train; 
And  a  trail  leads  on  from  Warren 

By  Sim  Willie's  fruitful  ranch, 
Till  it  comes  to  Reagan's  cabin 

Nestling  close  beside  a  branch. 

Who  was  Reagan?     None  will  answer, 

Save  he  was  of  Celtic  race, 
Loving  freedom  as  a  lover 

Loves  his  sweetheart's  form  and  face, 
Fought  for  it  in  many  battles, 

In  the  trenches  wet  and  red, 
Till  the  flag  above  him  triumphed 

And  his  foemen's  cause  was  dead. 


16 


REAGAN'S  CABIN 

Then  he  sought  that  quiet  shelter 

Far  away  from  scenes  of  strife, 
Building  there  his  lonely  cabin, 

Living  there  his  lonely  life; 
Freedom's  breeze  around  him  playing, 

Freedom's  waters  by  him  flow, 
That  for  which  his  great  heart  panted 

He  had  found  in  Idaho. 

Delving  deep  into  the  gravel 

While  the  water  ceaseless  rolled 
Through  the  rude,  rough  patterned  sluices 

Formed  to  catch  the  grains  of  gold; 
Season  after  season  found  him 

Bravely  fronting  Fate's  array, 
Left  him  wearier  and  nearer 

To  that  bourne  of  endless  day. 

Once  his  feathered  friends  departed 

In  the  autumn's  russet  storm. 
Leaving  him  alone  and  lonely 

With  bowed  head  and  feeble  form; 
Came  a  trapper  down  the  river 

To  the  cabin's  open  door, 
Where  he  found  grim  death  had  entered 

And  that  Reagan  was  no  more. 


17 


REAGAN'S  CABIN 

Folding  o'er  the  silent  bosom 

Those  thin  hands  so  hard  and  worn, 
Then  the  wasted,  lifeless  body 

To  its  resting  place  was  borne. 

*    *    *    * 

There  within  a  woodland  shelter 
Where  the  mountain  daisies  grow, 

Reagan  sleeps  away  the  seasons 
In  the  wilds  of  Idaho. 


18 


ROBERT   BURNS 

Recited  on  Burns'  Anniversary  at  Evanston,  Wyo. 

WE  meet  tonight  to  honor  him, 
Old  Scotia's  fav'rite  son, 
Whose  name  and  fame  will  never  dim 

As  long  as  waters  run; 
As  long  as  sun  and  moon  look  down 

Upon  this  world  so  fair 
Each  year  we'll  proudly  gather  round 
To  praise  the  bard  of  Ayr. 

In  fancy  we  can  see  the  cot 

Wherein  his  life  began, 
The  misery  of  his  hard  lot 

From  childhood  unto  man, 
And  wonder  how  a  soul  so  great 

With  gifts  beyond  compare 
Could  rise  from  such  a  lowly  state 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 


19 


ROBERT  BURNS 

Misfortune  waited  at  his  birth 

His  future  to  control, 
But  though  his  frame  she  held  to  earth 

She  could  not  hold  his  soul; 
And  soaring  upward  like  the  lark 

Unfettered  by  despair, 
His  songs  sent  sunshine  through  the  dark 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 

We  see  him  mingle  with  the  poor 

Down-trodden  of  his  race, 
Who,  like  himself,  are  held  secure 

In  poverty's  embrace; 
With  cheerful  song  he  strives  to  free 

Them  from  all  pressing  care 
By  singing  man's  equality 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 

He  taught  his  fellowmen  to  feel 

Like  brothers  of  the  soil, 
To  hate  the  man  whose  iron  heel 

Pressed  on  the  brow  of  toil; 
The  man  who  labored  long  and  hard 

With  forehead  hot  and  bare, 
Was  more  to  him  than  king's  regard, 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 


20 


ROBERT  BURNS 

The  maiden  crowned  with  beauty's  charm, 

And  filled  with  strange  unrest, 
Finds  solace  walking  arm  in  arm 

With  him  who  loves  her  best; 
She  feels  his  heart  in  rapture  beat, 

Its  passion  to  declare, 
And  over  her  an  incense  sweet 

Comes  from  the  banks  of  Ayr. 

We  see  these  trusting  lovers  stand 

Each  side  a  purling  stream, 
Fast  holding  to  each  others  hand 

Secure  in  love's  young  dream; 
His  heart,  his  life  he  fondly  gives 

That  she  might  with  him  share 
The  love  that  in  his  bosom  lives 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 

He  weeps  as  if  his  tender  heart 

Would  break  with  pain  and  woe, 
When  he  and  Highland  Mary  part 

To  meet  no  more  below; 
Fell  death  has  closed  her  gentle  eyes 

And  left  him  to  despair, 
And  we  can  hear  his  groans  and  sighs 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 


21 


ROBERT  BURNS 

How  wonderful  was  his  brief  span, 

So  full  of  fire  divine! 
While  poverty  clung  to  the  man 

Fame  made  his  home  her  shrine; 
His  songs  found  lodgment  in  the  heart 

Of  sorrow  and  of  care, 
And  raised  it  to  a  nobler  part 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 

Then  let  us  all  with  fond  acclaim 

Become  a  merry  throng 
By  honoring  our  poet's  name 

With  dancing  and  with  song; 
While  sadness  from  our  presence  turns 

To  hide  itself  elsewhere, 
We'll  have  a  jolly  night  with  Burns 

Upon  the  banks  of  Ayr. 


22 


WE'LL  GO   TO   LANCASHEER 


wife  an'  sit  ye  doun  a  bit, 
Ye  must  be  worn  I  know, 
Wi'  trudging  like  a  patient  slave 

To  keep  the  house  just  so, 
An*  let  the  childer  do  the  work 

That  ye  are  wont  to  do, 
Ye've  labored  long  enough  for  them, 

Let  them  now  work  for  you; 
Coom  draw  yer  chair  close  up  to  mine 

An'  be  content  a  while, 
That  I  may  see  once  more  your  face 

Beam  wi'  the  oud  sweet  smile, 
For  I've  been  thinkin'  lately 

How  nice  'twould  be,  my  dear, 
For  both  on  us  to  take  a  trip 

Back  to  oud  Lancasheer.  T 

Now  stop  a  bit  afore  ye  speak, 

An'  hear  my  story  through: 
I  got  a  letter  yesterday 

From  one  that's  dear  to  you; 
It  said  as  how  yer  mother 

Wor  so  lonely,  old  and  gray, 
An*  how  she  longed  to  see  us  two 

Afore  she  passed  away; 


23 


WE'LL  GO  TO  LANCASHEER 

I  did  na'  tell  of  it  last  night 

I  feared  'twould  grieve  ye  sore, 
That's  why  I  waited  till  today 

So  I  could  think  it  o'er, 
An'  I've  been  thinkin'  ever  sin' 

That  it  would  give  us  cheer 
To  take  a  pleasant  journey  back 

To  good  oud  Lancasheer. 

Somehow  I  could  na'  sleep  last  night, 

My  eye-lids  would  na'  close, 
I  rolled  an'  tossed  about  in  bed, 

But  could  na'  find  repose; 
My  thoughts  like  childer  out  o'  school 

Kept  flittin'  to  an'  fro, 
But  always  stopped  among  the  scenes 

We  knew  so  long  ago; 
When  night  had  vanished  an'  the  dawn 

Came  wi'  its  golden  light 
I  then  wor  wide  awake  as  now, 

An'  had  been  all  the  night; 
But  happiness  wor  in  my  heart, 

My  mind  wor  bright  and  clear 
When  I  resolved  that  coom  what  may 

We'd  go  to  Lancasheer. 


24 


WE'LL  GO  TO  LANCASHEER 

There's  Ned  an'  Tom,  our  only  sons, 

They  know  just  what  to  do, 
An'  Mary  wi'  the  kind  blue  eyes, 

That  looks  so  much  like  you — 
The  three  are  urgin'  us  to  go, 

They've  talked  it  o'er  wi'  me, 
An'  now  are  gettin'  things  in  shape 

For  us  to  cross  the  sea; 
So  get  yersel  all  ready,  lass, 

Don't  tarry  nor  delay, 
An'  bid  the  neebors  fond  goodbye, 

For  we  will  start  today; 
An'  sin'  I've  fully  made  my  mind, 

I  have  na'  e'en  a  fear 
But  that  we'll  cross  in  safety 

An'  again  see  Lancasheer. 


25 


WE'LL  GO  TO  LANCASHEER 

When  we  arrive  at  Bolton, 

The  place  where  we  wor  wed, 
I  know  we'll  be  right  welcoom 

By  the  landlord  o'  Nags  Head, 
For  he  was  very  good  to  us 

Upon  our  weddin'  day, 
An*  so  I'm  sure  he'll  be  the  same 

When  we  go  back  that  way; 
We'll  stop  wi'  him  a  day  or  two, 

To  meet  oud  friends  in  town, 
An'  then  we'll  go  to  Alchemoor 

An'  to  the  Rose  an'  Crown, 
Where  we  will  rest  oursels  a  bit 

An'  have  a  sup  o'  beer 
In  memory  o'  days  we  passed 

In  good  oud  Lancasheer. 

Coom  now  an'  fix  thysel'  a  bit, 

Put  on  thy  very  best, 
The  people  over  there  shall  know 

How  Yankee  folk  are  dressed, 
We'll  show  them  we  have  money 

Saved  against  a  rainy  day, 
An'  better  off  in  worldly  things 

Than  'fore  we  went  away; 


26 


WE'LL  GO  TO  LANCASHEER 

Coom,  hurry  now  the  time  is  short 

An'  let  us  make  a  start, 
The  sparkle  in  yer  kind  blue  eye 

Tells  me  what's  in  yer  heart, 
Thy  mother  will  be  happy 

When  she  sees  us  both  appear 
Upon  her  little  door-step  there 

In  good  oud  Lancasheer. 

0  how  my  heart  is  longin' 

For  a  sight  o'  that  oud  place 
Where  I  was  born  an'  where  I  first 

Beheld  yer  kindly  face; 
The  comrades  that  I  use  to  have 

In  those  good  days  of  yore, 

1  wonder  if  they'r  still  alive 

An'  live  in  Alchemoor? 
Of  course  I  know  we'er  gettin'  on, 

Our  hair  is  turnin'  gray, 
But  what  on  that?     Our  hearts  are  young 

An'  full  of  joy  today, 
An'  we  will  be  more  happy 

When  England's  shore  appear, 
An'  greet  us  in  the  name  o'  all 

We  love  in  Lancasheer. 


27 


HOME   AGAIN   FROM   LANCASHEER 


,  lads,  I'm  glad  we'er  back  again, 
Yer  mother  here  an'  me 
Have  had  a  very  anxious  trip 

Returnin'  o'er  the  sea; 
We  thought  on  you  and  Mary 

An'  all  we  left  at  home, 
That's  why  we  could  na'  coom  too  fast 

Across  the  ocean'  foam; 
We'd  only  been  in  England 

Not  above  a  day  or  two, 
When  somethin'  kept  a  nudgin' 

An'  a  pullin'  us  to  you; 
Yer  mother  could  na'  sleep  o'  nights 

An'  I  wor  feelin'  queer 
Because  ye  wor  so  far  away 

An'  us  in  Lancasheer. 

The  ship  as  we  went  over  in, 

The  biggest  we  had  seen, 
Wor  loaded  with  nice  things  to  eat 

An'  every  thing  was  clean, 
But  still  we  could  na'  eat  it, 

Nor  taste  on  it  nor  smell 
Wi'out  unloadin'  all  we  had 

Inside  on  us  as  well. 


28 


HOME  AGAIN  FROM  LANCASHEER 

'Twas  after  we'd  seen  England's  shore 

Spread  out  afore  our  sight 
That  we  began  to  feel  that  we 

Possessed  an  appetite; 
Yer  mother  ate  a  little 

As  the  good  ship  ventured  near, 
But  I  decided  I  would  wait 

An'  eat  in  Lancasheer. 

The  rugged  cliffs  that  border 

On  oud  England's  verdant  land, 
Appeared  to  kindly  welcoom  all 

Returnin'  to  her  strand; 
The  voices  of  the  people 

An'  the  bustin'  noise  an'  din 
They  made  upon  the  monster  deck 

Just  as  the  ship  sailed  in, 
Wor  cheerful-like  an'  pleasant 

After  days  upon  the  foam, 
But  none  on  it  could  take  the  place 

Of  what  we  left  at  home, 
No,  none  of  it  was  home-like, 

'Twas  all  so  strange  an'  queer, 
I  almost  wished  we'd  not  begun 

The  trip  to  Lancasheer. 


29 


HOME  AGAIN  FROM  LANCASHEER 

At  Bolton  things  are  not  the  same 

As  we  had  known  afore, 
The  landlord  of  the  oud  Nag's  Head 

Is  gone  forever  more; 
Another  man  is  in  his  stead, 

A  man  we  did  na'  know, 
That's  why  we  only  tarried  there 

A  half  an  hour  or  so; 
The  little  town  of  Alchemoor 

Has  changed  its  pretty  name 
For  one  as  I  don't  like  at  all, 

An'  this  I  think  a  shame; 
The  Rose  an'  Crown  is  runnin'  yet 

We  drank  some  on  its  beer, 
But  somehow  it  did  not  taste  right 

Not  like  oud  Lancasheer. 


30 


HOME  AGAIN  FROM  LANCASHEER 

We  found  yer  Grandma  aged  much, 

An'  not  o'er  strong  an'  spry, 
But  happy  at  the  sight  on  us 

An'  quite  resigned  to  die; 
We  watched  her  gently  fade  away, 

Her  eyes  grow  strangely  dim, 
When  God's  sweet  angel  came  an'  took 

Her  saintly  soul  wi'  him; 
We  laid  her  in  a  quite  nook 

Beneath  a  scented  rose 
That  she  had  planted  there  hersel' 

While  shapin'  for  life's  close; 
An'  there  among  her  kith  an'  kin 

She'll  sleep  from  year  to  year 
Until  the  trumpet  calls  the  dead 

To  life  in  Lancasheer. 

Some  of  the  friends  o'  early  days 

Had  wandered  far  away 
To  distant  lands,  as  we  had  done, 

An'  there  they  chose  to  stay; 
But  few  wor  left  to  meet  us, 

An'  when  we  saw  these  few, 
We  noticed  they  wor  sadly  changed 

An'  not  the  friends  we  knew; 


31 


HOME  AGAIN  FROM  LANCASHEER 

Others  are  in  the  silent  graves, 

Where  all  on  us  must  go, 
When  death  forbids  the  stream  o'  life 

To  longer  ebb  an'  flow; 
An'  when  I  gazed  upon  the  mounds 

That  held  oud  friends  so  dear, 
I  felt  that  we  had  seen  enough 

Of  good  oud  Lancasheer. 

Yes,  yes,  I'm  feelin'  better  now 

Than  I  have  felt  for  years, 
At  seein'  all  on  you  so  well, 

Yer  mother's  happy  tears, 
An'  every  thing  about  the  place 

Fills  me  wi'  such  a  joy 
As  nothing  in  this  world  could  change, 

Or  banish  or  destroy; 
I  love  this  land  where  ye  wor  born, 

That  kindly  shelters  me, 
An'  I'll  admit  I  also  love 

That  oud  land  o'er  the  sea; 
But  it  is  not  my  home  no  more, 

An'  I  am  happy  here, 
But  proud  that  I  have  seen  again 

Our  dear  oud  Lancasheer. 


32 


FONTENELLE 

Where  can  one  see  a  grander  scene 
In  all  of  Nature's  vast  domain? 


FONTENELLE 

A  MOUNTAIN  STREAM 


sun  has  left  a  golden  rim 
Of  glory  shining  in  his  stead; 
Meanwhile  the  ocean  welcomes  him 

Into  her  broad,  green-mantled  bed; 
The  moon,  attended  by  her  maids— 

The  faithful  stars  that  love  her  well— 
Will  soon  look  down  into  thy  glades, 
Thou  ever  rippling  Fontenelle. 

Where  can  one  see  a  grander  scene 

In  all  of  nature's  vast  domain? 
No  picture  spread  upon  a  screen 

Could  so  well  please  the  eye  and  brain; 
And  contemplation  leads  the  mind 

Along  time's  path  as  through  a  dell 
Beyond  the  ken  of  human  kind 

To  thy  beginning,  Fontenelle. 

The  mind  of  man  with  all  its  lore, 

With  all  its  depth  and  breadth  of  thought, 
Becomes  confused  while  brooding  o'er 

The  years  you  saw  and  counted  not — 
And  counted  not?     Perhaps  I'm  wrong; 

The  record  may  still  with  you  dwell, 
May  yet  be  read  by  bards  whose  song 

Will  tune  with  mine,  sweet  Fontenelle. 


33 


FONTENELLE 

Since  Bonneville  stood  upon  thy  shore 

Thy  history  we  plainly  scan, 
But  what  was  it  in  years  before 

Thou  were  beheld  by  mortal  man? 
But  then  enough  is  seen  and  known 

To  charm  the  senses  with  a  spell; 
You  gladden  us  with  thy  rich  tone 

Thou  ever  flowing  Fontenelle. 

Here  shaggy  herds  were  wont  to  graze 

Upon  each  green,  delightful  bank, 
And     bending  down  to  drink  would  gaze 

And  see  their  image  while  they  drank; 
Unconscious  of  the  lurking  foe 

Until  they  heard  his  savage  yell 
When  there  was  mingled  with  thy  flow 

Their  warm  life  blood,  sweet  Fontenelle. 

Today  where  once  the  bison  tramped 

Along  this  valley,  rich  and  green; 
Where  savages  and  trappers  camped 

And  clashed  in  warfare's  frightful  mien, 
Are  cattle  browsing  round  at  will 

And  homes  where  peaceful  fam'lies  dwell, 
Dependent  on  this  limpid  rill — 

Thy  silv'ry  waters,  Fontenelle. 


34 


FONTENELLE 

Oh!  winding  stream!  Oh!  laughing  rill! 

I  see  the  willows  bending  low, 
As  if  to  listen  to  the  trill 

Thy  waters  make  as  on  they  go; 
The  snow-capped  peaks  that  gave  thee  birth 

Can  ne'er  a  sweeter  story  tell, 
Can  ne'er  bestow  upon  the  earth 
A  richer  gift  than  Fontenelle. 


35 


JAMES   BRIDGER 

1804—1881 
Mountaineer,  Trapper,  Hunter,  Guide 

A    BEDOUIN  of  the  wild,  wild  West  was  he; 
-**•      Her  secrets,  Nature  never  from  him  held ; 
His  eye  far-set,  the  eagle's  could  out-see; 
In  courage  strong,  in  woodcraft  unexcelled. 

His  years  were  spent  in  solitude  and  strife, 
In  wilderness,  in  regions  new  and  quaint; 

The  busy  marts,  the  city's  bustling  life, 

To  him  were  prisons  barred  by  harsh  restraint. 

The  first  white  man  to  gaze  on  Great  Salt  Lake, 
That  wonder  lying  in  the  mountain's  lap; 

The  Yellowstone,  where  waters  fall  and  break 
In  awful  grandeur  through  the  rock- worn  gap. 

The  wind-carved  rocks  still  pedestal  the  peaks, 
Still  keep  their  hooded  summits  in  the  sky; 

The  vagrant  cloud  in  passing  often  seeks 

To  shield  them  from  the  gaze  of  mortal  eye. 

The  great  Tetons,  the  sisters  of  the  range, 
Encrowned  alike  in  diadems  of  snow; 

Remain  the  same,  though  they  have  seen  a 

change 
Come  over  hill  and  valley  far  below. 

36 


JAMES'BRIDGER 

The  shaggy  herds  have  vanished  from  their 

haunts, 
The  redman,  once  their  owner,  pines  and 

fades; 

All  must  succumb  unto  the  whiteman's  wants — 
The  greedy  hand  of  commerce  which  pervades 

He  lived  the  nomad's  life,  the  Indian's  ways, 
His  comradeship  he  loved,  his  manners  aped; 

He  dwelt  with  him  until  his  closing  days, 
Then  to  the  noisy  city  he  escaped. 

The  path  he  made,  became  in  after  years 
The  highway  for  an  Empire  westward  bent; 

Nor  dreamed  it  once,  amid  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Of  him  who  gave  to  it  a  continent. 


37 


DOWN    IN    A   COAL   MINE 

A  REMINISCENCE 


gentle  muse,  let  us  descend 
Into  the  caverns,  deep  and  wet; 
Perhaps  we'll  find  a  cherished  friend 

At  work  there  yet. 
For  mem'ry  to  my  vision  brings 

A  picture  that  will  not  depart; 
Meanwhile  she  plays  upon  the  strings 
That  hold  my  heart. 

So,  backward  o'er  life's  road  I  go  — 

To  other  days  and  youthful  years, 
Where  first  I  tasted  of  its  woe 

And  bitter  tears; 
And  I  behold  a  little  child 

That  scarce  ten  summers  yet  had  seen, 
By  stern  necessity  beguiled 
To  labor  mean. 

His  eye,  as  bright  as  is  the  dew 

Upon  the  rose  leaf  in  the  morn, 
His  soul  as  sinless  as  the  blue 

The  heaven's  adorn; 
His  voice,  like  childhood's  happy  voice 

Is  pleasing  in  its  tender  tone, 
And  he  is  ready  to  rejoice 
At  kindness  shown. 


38 


DOWN  IN  A  COAL  MINE 

His  home  is  dear  to  his  young  heart, 

Wherein  he  never  felt  alarm; 
Embellished  by  a  mother's  art 

And  matchless  charm; 
And  here  he  learned  to  love  the  light 

And  air  God  freely  gives  to  all, 
But  now  grim  hunger,  gaunt  and  white, 
Begins  to  call. 

I  hear  the  whistle's  loud,  hoarse  blast 

Call  labor  ere  it  yet  is  day, 
And  sleep  that  holds  its  eye-lids  fast 

Flies  swift  away; 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees; 

Are  pouring  out  their  tuneful  lays, 
Which  mingle  with  the  morning  breeze 
Like  songs  of  praise. 

The  little  child  is  kissed  and  wakes; 

Two  loving  arms  around  him  press, 
And  from  his  lowly  cot  she  takes 

And  helps  him  dress; 
A  scanty  meal,  then  hand  in  hand 
He  goes  with  father  to  the  pit; 
Too  young  to  know  or  understand 
The  cause  of  it. 


DOWN  IN  A  COAL  MINE 

He  stands  upon  the  waiting  cage 

Prepared  to  disappear  from  sight; 
The  devil  noting  well  his  age 

Laughs  with  delight; 
Aye  laughs — because  'tis  here  he  stands 
With  tools  that  tempt  a  little  child, 
With  which  when  taken  in  his  hands 
He  is  defiled. 

Such  little  ones  with  sinless  souls, 

Amid  the  darkness,  smoke  and  din, 
Soon  learn  in  those  black,  grimy  holes 

The  ways  of  sin; 
The  words  he  hears  are  not  all  clean, 

Would  not  a  charming  presence  grace; 
But  then,  perhaps,  they  match  the  scene 
Of  such  a  place. 

He  smells  the  smoky,  fetid  air, 

And  breathing  it  his  senses  swim, 
While  something  like  unto  despair 

Comes  over  him; 
But  he  must  work,  though  sick  and  sore, 

Must  help  to  keep  the  wolf  at  bay, 
The  butcher  and  the  company  store 
Must  have  their  pay. 


40 


DOWN  IN  A  COAL  MINE 

O,  Poverty!  the  grief  and  pain; 
The  misery  and  carking  care 
Attendant  on  thy  lowly  train 

Are  hard  to  bear; 
And  were  it  not  for  Hope's  bright  ray 

That  yet  within  us  dimly  glows, 
We'd  fall  upon  life's  stormy  way 
Overcome  with  woes. 

Again  the  whistle's  noisy  blast 

Is  heard  to  echo  o'er  the  hill; 
The  long,  long  weary  day  is  past, 

The  world  is  still; 
And  homeward  in  the  dying  day 

The  toil-worn  father  and  the  son 
Are  seen  to  slowly  wend  their  way, 
Their  labors  done. 

He  sees  his  home,  and  as  he  nears, 

A  face  his  weariness  beguiles; 
A  figure  in  the  door  appears — 

An  angel  smiles; 
For  there  his  loving  mother  stands 

With  outstretched  arms  to  greet  her  boy 
Who  shows  his  tender,  blistered  hands 
And  weeps  for  joy. 


41 


DOWN  IN  A  COAL  MINE 

O,  Mother!  when  I  saw  thy  form 

Laid  low  in  icy  death's  embrace, 
I  yet  could  see  a  hallowed  charm 

In  thy  sweet  face; 
The  memory  of  by -gone  years 

Rushed  o'er  me  like  a  flood  of  woe, 
Revealing  all  the  joys  and  tears 
Of  long  ago. 

My  much  loved  sire  in  manhood's  prime 
Succumbed  to  hardships  underground, 

And  you,  who  loved  me  all  the  time 
Likewise  have  found 

A  resting  place  from  care  and  strife; 
And  now  you  both  sleep  in  the  shade 

Where  poverty,  the  ban  of  life 
Can  ne'er  invade. 


42 


THE   MONTH   OF   MAY 

r  I  ^HE  sweet-eyed  May,  scent-laden, 
-^      Trips  gaily  into  view; 
Her  tender  feet,  from  wading 
Are  moist  with  April's  dew. 

The  silent  hill  and  valley 

Where  sleeping  verdure  lies, 

Behold  their  tenants  rally 
And  open  wide  their  eyes. 

The  trees  put  out  their  banners 

On  every  slender  stem; 
From  which  come  glad  hosannas 

Of  birds  that  sing  in  them. 

Her  magic  spell — unbroken 

By  e'en  an  icy  chill — 
Remains  to  safely  open 

The  buds  that  frost  would  kill 

When  trees  and  flowers  blossom 

Late  in  her  afternoon, 
She'll  gather  them  and  toss  them 

Upon  the  lap  of  June. 


43 


THE   MINE    EXPLOSION 

Founded  on  an  incident  of  the  coal  mine  explosion 
at  Hanna,  Wyo.,  June  30,  1903. 


"W'E  lovers  of  the  earth  and  sky, — 
•*"      The  air  and  warm  sunshine; 
Give  heed  while  I  relate  a  tale 

About  a  deep  coal  mine; 
How  death  upon  a  cloud  of  flame 

Rode  madly  through  the  pit, 
And  in  his  ire  consumed  with,  fire 

The  men  that  toiPd  in  it. 

Two  brothers  died  below  that  day, 

Two  brothers  fond  and  dear, 
Who  came  from  England's  distant  shores 

To  live  and  labor  here; 
Their  wives — two  handsome  new  made  brides 

Came  with  them  o'er  the  foam 
To  aid  and  bless  with  love's  caress 

The  founding  of  a  home. 


44 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

They  settled  in  a  mountain  camp 

Where  nature  long  had  frowned. 
So  desolate  the  hills  and  plains 

So  barren  was  the  ground 
That  not  a  tree  nor  e'en  a  flower 

Could  find  a  place  to  grow; 
For  shifting  sand  rolled  o'er  the  land 

Like  winter's  new-born  snow. 

These  brothers  were  inured  to  work 

From  childhood  in  a  mine, 
Where  ever  present  dangers  lurk 

To  frustrate  man's  design; 
Where  hardship  left  upon  the  brow 

Its  ugly  mark  of  care, 
Where  all  was  blight  and  gloom  and  night 

To  those  that  labored  there. 

Their  names — well  never  mind  their  names 

We  called  them  Bob  and  Joe; 
As  such  we  knew  them  in  the  mine, 

As  such  we'll  ever  know. 
When  numbers  are  engulfed  in  death 

By  sheets  of  livid  flame, 
We  note  the  sum  of  those  o'ercome 

And  not  so  much  the  name. 


45 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

Poor  Mary  from  her  childhood  hour 

Had  known  the  keenest  strife, 
And  happiness  had  only  come 

To  her  as  Bob's  sweet  wife. 
When  he  was  close,  her  dark  brown  eyes 

Beamed  forth  her  loving  pride, 
But  when  away,  the  neighbors  say 

She  feared  lest  woe  betide. 

She'd  talk  to  them  about  the  mine, 

About  the  deadly  damp, 
That  ever  waits  to  touch  the  flame 

On  some  poor  collier's  lamp, 
Then  burning  madly  rush  along 

The  channels  underground, 
Until  its  breath  had  stilled  in  death 

All  living  souls  it  found. 

And  talking  thus  the  tears  would  flow 

Like  rain  adown  each  cheek, 
Convulsive  sobs  would  shake  her  frame 

Till  she  could  scarcely  speak. 
The  neighbors  noting  well  her  grief 

Declared  with  tearful  sigh 
If  death  should  rob  her  life  of  Bob 

She,  too,  would  surely  die. 


46 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 


But  Joe's  wife  was  a  different  lass, 

Light  hearted  all  day  long; 
No  sadness  seemed  to  cloud  her  sky 

Nor  mar  sweet  Nellie's  song; 
She'd  laugh  at  Mary's  gloomy  moods, 

Then  say  with  playful  wit: 
"It's  time  enough  to  cross  the  bridge 

When  we  have  come  to  it." 

Love  plays  queer  pranks  with  women's  hearts, 

So  masterful  his  skill, 
That  smiles  and  tears  and  hopes  and  fears 

He  causes  at  his  will; 
Poor  Mary's  tears  her  love  bespoke, 

For  Bob  they'd  ever  flow; 
While  Nellie's  song  the  whole  day  long 

Spoke  equally  for  Joe. 


men 
iii  i 

••  .....  . 

!  ill!  '.i;  ].'•,::   ho  .: 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

And  would  not  Mary's  eyes  be  wet, 

Her  tears  of  gladness  flow, 
And  would  not  Nellie's  joyful  song 

Give  happiness  to  Joe? 
A  bath,  and  after  that  a  meal — 

The  collier's  main  repast — 
Would  drive  away  the  cares  of  day 

Like  chaff  before  a  blast. 

One  morning  in  the  month  of  June 

The  sky  was  bright  and  clear, 
The  whistle  sent  its  dismal  sound 

To  workmen  far  and  near; 
The  miners  heeding  duty's  call 

Bade  loved  ones  fond  goodbye, 
But  not  a  sign  came  from  the  mine 

To  tell  them  death  was  nigh. 

The  gasmen  in  their  morning  round 

Had  been  from  place  to  place; 
Had  marked  with  chalk  the  day  and  date 

Upon  each  working  face; 
Then  out  they  went  to  meet  the  men 

Who  waited  there  in  line 
To  hear  them  say  the  word,  ere  they 

Went  down  into  the  mine. 


48 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

The  colliers  one  by  one  approached, 

Approached,  but  dared  not  pass 
The  spot  where  stood  those  cautious  men 

Who  watched  the  deadly  gas, 
And  asked:     "How  is  my  place  today?" 

A  watchman  then  replied, 
"'Tis  safe  and  sound,  no  gas  was  found, 

All,  all  is  safe  inside." 

And  thus  assured  that  all  was  well, 

They  entered  that  black  hole, 
And  every  man  at  once  began 

To  blast  and  load  his  coal. 
The  engines  groaned  and  shrieked  and  hissed, 

The  trips  arose  and  fell, 
The  busy  hum  of  rope  and  drum 

Said  all  was  safe  and  well. 

The  wives,  engaged  in  wonted  tasks, 

Pursued  them  with  a  will; 
The  little  children  laughed  and  played 

Most  happily,  until — 
A  shock  as  of  an  earthquake  came 

With  fearful,  loud  portent; 
Then  from  the  mine  came  forth  a  sign 

Which  told  them  what  it  meant. 


49 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

A  terror  such  as  fear  provokes 

Held  them  in  its  embrace; 
A  ghastly  pallor  spread  its  tinge 

On  every  person's  face. 
They  saw  the  angry  smoke  and  flame 

Leap  upward  from  the  slope, 
And  in  its  glare  they  felt  despair 

Rush  in,  and  kill  their  hope. 

Oh!  God!  it  is  an  awful  sight; 

Grim  ruin  everywhere! 
Since  this  much  we  can  plainly  see, 

What  must  it  be  down  there? 
What  has  become  of  those  brave  men 

At  work  deep  underground, 
Who  stood  in  line  here  at  the  mine, 

When  all  was  safe  and  sound. 

At  last  the  spell  that  held  them  all 

Relaxed  its  fearful  hold, 
The  frenzied  women  madly  rushed 

To  where  the  red  flames  rolled, 
And  peering  in  that  dark  abyss 

They  yet  could  see  it  flare, 
As  though  it  sought  each  open  spot 

To  see  if  life  were  there. 


50 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

In  horror  and  in  wild  dismay 

They  gathered  round  that  hole, 
Imploring  God  to  spare  his  rod 

And  save  the  colliers'  soul 
Poor  Mary,  foremost  at  the  scene 

Weeped  bitterly  and  long; 
But  Nellie's  face  we  could  not  trace 

Among  the  widowed  throng. 

While  Mary  lingered  near  the  mine, 

The  picture  of  despair, 
Sweet  Nellie,  broken-hearted,  stayed 

At  home,  quite  helpless  there; 
She  knew  no  face,  she  heard  no  voice; 

But  plaintively  and  low 
She  tried  to  coo  a  love  song  to 

Bring  back  her  dear,  dead  Joe. 

Week  after  week  brave  volunteers 

Undaunted  by  dismay, 
ToiFd  ceaselessly  to  find  the  men 

Who  died  below  that  day, 
But  wreck  and  ruin  filled  the  mine; 

Obstructions  high  and  wide 
Like  demons  lay  to  bar  the  way 

And  keep  the  dead  inside. 


51 


THE  MINE  EXPLOSION 

The  evening  Bob  and  Joe  were  found 

A  figure  strangely  white, 
Like  lily  fair  was  lying  there 

On  her  lowly  cot  that  night. 
The  stars  were  vying  with  the  moon 

In  lighting  heaven's  dome, 
When  through  the  door  an  angel  bore 

Her  gentle  spirit  home. 

The  new  made  graves  are  filled  at  last 

Bob  sleeps  in  one  alone, 
The  wild  winds  sigh  as  they  pass  by 

With  many  a  low  sad  moan; 
And  Mary  wandered  far  away, 

Just  where  I  do  not  know; 
But  neighbors  tell  how  poor  sweet  Nell 

Sleeps  in  the  grave  with  Joe. 


52 


NIGHT 

r  I AHE  mountain's  shadow  goes  to  greet 
-**      The  calm,  approaching  night; 
And  in  the  valley  where  they  meet 
They  lovingly  unite. 

Her  silent  footsteps  softly  creep 

Along  the  path  of  Day; 
And  if  the  road  be  rough  and  steep 

The  stars  light  up  the  way. 

The  fretful  child,  worn  with  his  play 
Is  kissed,  and  lo!  he  dreams 

All  weariness  and  pain  away 
Among  the  starry  beams. 

And  he,  the  toiler  for  the  home, 
On  whom  so  much  depends 

Knows,  when  he  sees  her  gently  come, 
'Tis  as  one  of  his  friends. 

O  Night!  the  friend  of  weariness 

Giver  of  rest  and  joy! 
The  cares  of  day  that  on  us  press, 

You,  while  you  reign,  destroy. 


53 


IT'S   FISHING   TIME 

TT'S  fishing  time,  the  mountain  stream 

•*•         Is  calling  loud; 

The  pebbles  in  the  ripples  gleam 

In  misty  shroud; 
Do  you  not  hear  the  water  hum? 

Its  merry  chime 
Tells  us  to  hurry  up  and  come — 

Its  fishing  time. 

It's  fishing  time;  go  for  your  rod 

Your  line  and  reel, 
By  simply  turning  o'er  the  sod 

You'll  catch  and  feel 
The  juicy  worms — the  best  of  bait — 

That  twist  and  climb 
As  if  they'd  like  to  shun  their  fate — 

It's  fishing  time. 

It's  fishing  time;  away  with  care, 

Let  it  remain 
To  nurse  the  semblance  of  despair 

And  fancied  pain; 
The  mountains  have  no  naughty  germs 

Committing  crime, 
So  hurry  up  and  dig  the  worms, 

It's  fishing  time. 


54 


IT'S   FISHING   TIME 


SONG   OF   THE   AIR   IN   THE   MINE 

T  WAS  sitting  in  the  entry, 

•*•       Humming  low  a  fancied  song, 

While  my  fevered  brow  was  cooling, 

In  the  air  that  rushed  along, 
Through  the  dreary,  darkened  chambers 

Where  the  deadly  lurking  damp 
Lingers  harmlessly  till  started 

By  the  flame  on  someone's  lamp. 

The  pick,  pick,  pick  of  the  miners 

I  heard  in  the  chambers  afar, 
Like  the  noise  of  cracking  muskets 

When  soldiers  are  at  war; 
Now  and  then  a  sound  like  cannon 

Roared  out  with  a  lurid  glare, 
When  a  blast,  red-tongued,  exploded 

And  rolled  on  the  vibrant  air. 

Onward — the  current  moved  onward, 

Swiftly  and  coldly  it  flew 
Into  the  farthest  recesses 

Still  keeping  constant  and  true; 
Hurrying  past  me  it  murmured 

In  language  quite  careless  and  free: 
"O,  man,  thy  life  shall  be  forfeit 

If  thou  for  a  moment  stop  me. 


55 


SONG  OF  THE  AIR  IN  THE  MINE 

"Make  room  for  my  wings,  O  mortal, 

Make  room  for  my  wings  to  fly 
With  breath  for  the  panting  toilers 

Or  they  will  perish  and  die; 
Stand  not  in  my  way  for  an  instant 

Obstruct  not  my  hard-worn  path, 
Or  the  gas  that  I  should  make  harmless 

Will  flame  in  its  awful  wrath. 

"When  the  world  was  in  disorder, 

Ere  the  days  and  nights  began 
Changing  cycles  with  each  other, 

Long  before  the  birth  of  man, 
I  was  constantly  in  motion 

Making  ready  all  the  earth 
For  the  coming  and  the  welcome 

Of  humanity's  proud  birth. 

"Then  I  lived  to  be  man's  servant 

On  the  land  and  on  the  wave, 
Doing  wonders  at  his  bidding, 

Working  like  a  faithful  slave; 
Driving  clouds  across  the  heavens 

When  he  needed  cooling  rain; 
When  dispelling  them  that  sunshine 

Might  smile  on  the  earth  again. 


56 


SONG  OF  THE  AIR  IN  THE  MINE 

"Now  they  take  me  in  the  darkness 

Where  the  Devil's  imps  abound; 
There  to  kill  the  gas  that  gathers 

Like  a  stealthy  foe  around, 
Waiting  to  disclose  its  presence 

When  a  flaming  lamp  is  near 
To  ignite  it,  then  to  hasten 

On  its  wild  and  mad  career. 

"Keep  my  passageway  wide  open, 

Make  me  sing  as  on  I  go, 
Then  the  gas  that  I  encounter 

Meets  an  unrelenting  foe; 
I  alone  can  make  it  harmless, 

Make  it  shudder,  break  and  flee, 
And  in  safety  keep  the  miners, 

That  depend  for  life  on  me." 


57 


JOE   BLACK'S  TRIP 

first  stop  was  at  Portland, 
Where  the  everlasting  rain 
Rolls  from  the  clouds  like  torrents 

Rushing  headlong  down  a  plain, 
An'  when  the  clouds  was  empty 

They'd  go  sailing  out  once  more 
To  fill  up  with  the  ocean 

Then  return  again  an'  pour; 
I  thought  of  my  own  mountains 

These  dry  an'  rollin'  plains 
An'  wondered  what  they'd  look  like 

Soaked  up  in  them  there  rains, 
An'  I  said  give  me  Wyomin' 

With  its  icy  air  and  snow 
An'  the  jingle  of  the  sleigh-bells 

Which  these  people  do  not  know. 


58 


JOE  BLACK'S  TRIP 

Then  we  went  to  Californy 

To  try  and  shed  the  rain 
But  all  the  time  them  pesky  clouds 

Kept  follerin'  the  train, 
And  poured  on  us  their  contents 

Whene'er  they  got  a  show, 
And  soaked  us  soul  an'  body, 

Which  was  durn  sight  wus  nor  snow. 
The  city  of  the  Angels 

That  we'd  read  so  much  about, 
Has  lots  of  pretty  flowers 

Inside  the  fence  and  out; 
But  I  wouldn't  give  a  petal 

From  our  native,  old  wild  rose 
For  all  the  fancy  botany 

That  in  that  country  grows. 

Where'er  we  went  we  had  to  go 

Beneath  a  umber-rel, 
'Cause  when  it  wasn't  rainin' 

It  was  simply  hot  as — well, 
I  can't  find  words  to  say  it — 

But  while  we  sojourned  there 
My  mountain  home  kept  callin'  us 

To  come  and  breathe  its  air, 


59 


JOE  BLACK'S  TRIP 

To  come  an'  see  the  cattle 

An'  the  fodder  green  an'  rich, 
An'  drink  the  icy  water 

That  was  runnin'  in  the  ditch; 
An'  I  tell  ye,  boys,  a  longin' 

Filled  my  old  eyes  with  a  mist, 
An'  something  kept  a  pullin' 

That  we  couldn't  well  resist. 

Of  course  I  seen  the  oranges 

An'  lemons  on  the  trees, 
But  how  in  all  tarnation 

Can  a  fellow  live  on  these? 
A  little  fruit  in  season 

Is  well  enough,  no  doubt 
But  there's  nothin'  like  good  beef-steak 

To  make  a  man  pan  out; 
An'  here  upon  the  home  ranch 

Are  the  things  that  fairly  suit 
To  make  a  man  contented 

An'  a  great  deal  more  to  boot; 
Its  not  too  hot  in  summer, 

In  winter  not  too  cold, 
An'  grub  that  keeps  us  healthy 

As  we  lovin'ly  grow  old. 


60 


JOE  BLACK'S  TRIP 

No,  I  wouldn't  give  Wyomin' 

Nur  a  mountain  nur  a  plain, 
Fur  all  of  Californy, 

Her  sunshine  an'  her  rain; 
Her  banks  of  pretty  flowers, 

Nur  them  whoppin'  big  grape  vines, 
'Cause  ye  can't  work  when  its  rainin' 

An'  its  too  hot  when  it  shines; 
I'd  rather  be  on  Piney 

Where  the  cattle  grow  an'  thrive, 
Where  we  can  sleigh  in  winter 

An'  in  the  summer  drive, 
An'  visit  with  the  neighbors 

In  a  manner  free  from  strife, 
Than  to  live  in  any  other  place 

An'  worry  out  my  life. 


61 


ON  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 

An  answer  to  an  attack  on  woman's 
suffrage,  made  by  D.  B.  R. 


A  H !  Laddie,  I  have  read  your  chatter, 
•*^     Wherein  you  rant  and  rave  and  clatter 
'Gainst  Women's  Rights,  which  does  not  scatter 

Nor  hide  in  fear. 
I  deem  your  screed  less  mind  than  matter 

And  not  sincere. 

I've  seen  the  women  of  my  state 
Go  to  the  polls,  calm  and  sedate, 
And  cast  a  vote  to  elevate 

The  human  race, 
Without  the  slightest  fear  or  hate 

And  with  good  grace. 

Glance  backward  on  life's  stormy  page, 
And  note  the  change  from  age  to  age 
Wherein  each  period  does  assuage 

The  poor  man's  lot; 
See  if  it  justifies  your  rage, 

Your  unkind  thought. 


62 


ON  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 

Progression  in  the  human  race 
Goes  forward  with  a  steady  pace; 
The  new  ideals  the  old  displace 

And  help  us  on; 
So  we  should  meet  them  face  to  face 

While  yet  'tis  dawn. 

Man's  freedom  came,  I'd  have  you  note, 
When  he  began  to  think  and  vote, 
In  times  not  very  far  remote 

From  this  our  age; 
Ere  then  he  floundered  like  a  boat 

In  ocean's  rage. 

« 

Since  we  have  seen  ourselves  advance, 
And  suffrage  does  our  toil  enhance, 
Why  do  you  hurl  your  shining  lance 

At  targets  human; 
Why  not  allow  a  fighting  chance 

To  our  fair  women? 

The  Movement  which  you  vainly  scorn, 
Has  oft  the  brunt  of  battle  borne, 
And  though  its  flag  is  badly  torn 

It's  there  to  stay 
Till  Gabriel  blows  his  golden  horn 

On  Judgment  day. 


63 


ON  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 

And  why  should  women  be  denied 

The  Rights  with  which  you  are  supplied? 

Are  you  so  lordly  in  your  pride 

As  not  to  share 
With  her  who  suffers  at  your  side 

Your  sumptuous  fare? 

Let  her,  my  lad,  have  every  right 
Which  man  does  for  himself  invite; 
Be  freed  from  pettiness  and  spite 

And  sad  dejection; 
And  in  addition,  man,  go  fight 

For  her  protection. 


64 


WASHAKIE 


WASHAKIE 

Affectionately  Dedicated  to  Dr.  Joseph  H.  Sayer 
ofCozad,  Nebraska. 


The  story,  this  of  Washakie, 

Related  years  ago  to  me 

By  old  men  of  the  Shoshone. 

r  I  ^WAS  in  the  merry  month  of  June — 
-*•      When  Nature,  like  a  maiden  dressed 
To  meet  her  lover,  looks  her  best; 

Attired  in  robes  that  sweetly  tune 
With  sunny  days  and  moonlit  nights 

And  air  that  braces  and  delights — 
That  Washakie  camped  by  a  rill 

Which  tumbles  down  the  mountain's  side 
Into  the  valley,  deep  and  wide, 

Then  hurries  onward,  onward  till 
Far  from  the  land  of  Shoshone 

It  flows  a  river  to  the  sea. 


65 


WASHAKIE 

If  you  have  seen  the  mountain  streams 

Roll  down  the  canyons  foaming  white, 
Released  by  summer's  sunny  gleams 

From  banks  of  snow,  that  glisten  bright 
Upon  the  highest  of  the  peaks 

That  are  the  first  to  greet  the  sun, 
And  last  to  feel  on  their  cold  cheeks 

His  warm,  red  kiss  when  day  is  done 
Or  seen  the  islands  of  the  air 

Drift  slowly  till  they  hide  and  whelm 
With  fleecy  shrouds  the  peaks  that  share 

The  glory  of  their  azure  realm; 
YouVe  seen  a  picture  where  God's  hand 
Makes  beautiful  our  native  land. 

Then  add  to  these,  the  pines  that  sigh 

Whene'er  a  zephyr  passes  by; 

The  aspen  trees  that  gaily  fling 

Their  silver  banners  out  in  spring, 

And  flowers  that  in  rare  beauty  blow 

Beside  the  disappearing  snow, 

While  overhead  and  near  and  far 

Our  feathered  friends,  God's  minstrels,  are. 

Enchantment  makes  her  dwelling  place 

Where  Nature's  gardener  aspires 
To  deftly  on  the  landscape  trace 

Her  master's  wishes  and  desires. 


66 


If  you  have  seen  a  mountain  stream 
Roll  down  the  canyons  foaming  white. 


WASHAKIE 

'Tis  not  howe'er  such  scenes  sublime 
That  to  the  savage  eye  appeals; 

His  instincts  point  him  to  the  clime 
Where  the  Great  Spirit  kindly  deals 

With  his  necessities,  and  there 

He  journeys,  certain  of  his  share. 

In  such  a  place  the  camp  was  made, 
The  horses  turned  adrift  to  graze 
Their  fill  upon  the  grassy  glade; 

The  squaws  assumed  their  wonted  ways 
While  faithful  scouts  with  eagle  eyes 

Surveyed  the  landscape  and  the  skies 
For  signs  that  should  to  them  disclose 
The  presence  of  their  lurking  foes. 
But  nowhere  was  the  tell-tale  mould 
Indented  by  the  stealthy  tread 
Of  hostile  foot,  and  overhead 
No  curling  smoke  to  heaven  rolled. 
Security's  seductive  spell 
Upon  the  cautious  warriors  fell, 
And  squatting  on  the  cushioned  ground 
They  smoked,  and  passed  the  pipe  around 
In  silence,  save  that  with  each  smoke 
A  grunt  the  solemn  stillness  broke. 


67 


WASHAKIE 

And  when  the  feast  of  smoke  was  o'er, 
The  pipe  of  peace  no  longer  burned, 
Some  sought  the  streamlet's  pebbled  shore, 

And  some  into  the  forest  turned, 
While  some,  beneath  a  spreading  tree, 
Remained  to  talk  with  Washakie 
About  his  manly,  war-like  son 
Who  in  their  battles  had  displayed 
The  warrior's  ready  art  and  trade, — 
Had  fought  their  enemies,  and  won. 

The  chief  was  but  a  savage  child 

Of  Nature,  and  as  yet  untamed 
In  whitemen's  eyes,  and  undefiled 

By  his  environments,  but  famed 
For  traits  the  passing  whiteman  lacked; 

For  honesty — all  that  it  meant — 
For  wisdom  and  for  tender  tact 

In  tribal  joys  and  discontent; 
Loving  the  truth;  and  from  his  lips 

No  substitute  for  it  e'er  came; 
The  lying  tongue  that  halts  and  slips 

Whenever  virtue  breathes  her  name 
He  hated,  and  the  man  of  lies 
Could  find  no  favor  in  his  eyes. 


68 


WASHAKIE 

He  was  the  friend  of  gentle  peace, 

Ever  ready  to  take  her  hand 
Whene'er  she  urged  that  war  should  cease 

Its  devastation  of  the  land; 
But  crafty  foes  beset  the  path 

And  often  did  they  make  her  flee; 
Then  they  encountered  in  his  wrath 

The  mighty  arm  of  Washakie. 
The  annals  of  the  tribal  page 

Record  his  prowess  in  the  fray, 
His  feats  of  strength,  his  awful  rage 

That  none  of  them  could  curb  or  stay 
Until  his  enemies  had  fled 
Or  at  his  feet  were  lying  dead. 


69 


WASHAKIE 

But  now  the  chief,  like  some  good  king 
Of  whom  a  grateful  people  sing, 
Was  seated  where  the  cooling  breeze 
Sang  sweetest  in  the  waving  trees, 
Beloved  and  honored,  as  a  knight 
Whose  cause  was  ever  just  and  right. 
His  favored  son,  Nan-nag-gie  strayed 
Afar  into  the  forest  glade 
With  comrades  of  his  age  and  size 
Who  saw  within  those  deep-set  eyes 
Ambition's  worthy  passion  gleam 
Like  sunshine  on  the  rippling  stream; 
And  often  had  they  heard  him  say 
That  in  some  happy  future  day 
He'd  lead  them  as  his  sire  had  done 
Against  the  Blackfeet  and  the  Sioux 
And,  if  needs  be  against  the  two 
Proud,  boastful  tribes,  if  joined  as  one. 


70 


WASHAKIE 

But  hark!  alarm  has  seized  the  camp; 

Upon  the  hill  is  seen  the  foe 

Flitting  like  shadows  to  and  fro 

In  war's  attire;  the  heavy  tramp 

Of  horses  mingles  with  the  yell 

Of  savagery  that  fills  the  dell. 

They  come,  they  come!     From  left  to  right 

They  ride  around  the  little  band 

Of  warriors  that  are  close  at  hand; 

Descending  like  a  flash  of  light 

Into  a  sky  that's  black  as  night. 

But  Washakie  with  voice  and  arm 
Is  quick  to  quiet  the  alarm; 
And  calling  loudly  from  the  glade 
The  warriors  hasten  to  his  aid, 
And  rushing  out  to  meet  the  foe 
They  strike  him  first  the  hardest  blow. 
The  fight  soon  ends;  the  foeman's  rout 
Is  followed  by  the  victor's  shout. 


71 


WASHAKIE 

Nan-nag-gie  with  the  utmost  speed 
Came  forward,  but  alas  too  late 
To  try  his  skill,  or  show  his  hate 

For  those  whom  he  could  see  recede 
Over  the  hill  from  which  they  came 

For  glory,  but  retired  with  shame. 
The  chief,  his  eyes  aflame  with  wrath, 

Then  said:  "See,  I  have  killed  this  Sioux 
But  where,  brave  warrior,  where  were  you 

When  enemies  beset  our  path? 
Now  that  you  see  the  foes  withdraw 
You  clatter  forward  like  a  squaw." 

The  youth  a  moment  bowed  his  head 
As  if  ashamed  at  what  was  said; 
Then  looking  squarely  at  his  sire 
With  passion  gleaming  in  his  eyes 
He  cried:     "My  name  will  yet  arise 

As  smoke  does  from  a  new  made  fire, 
And  ere  the  sun  descends,  will  be 
As  great  as  yours,  brave  Washakie." 


72 


WASHAKIE 

With  that  he  started  like  the  wind, 

His  pony  dashing  up  and  on 

The  hill  o'er  which  the  foe  had  gone, 

Till  he  was  lost  to  those  behind. 
The  warriors  gazed  in  mute  surprise 

Until  the  mad  youth  passed  from  sight, 
And  seeing  in  their  chieftain's  eyes 

The  sparkle  of  a  softer  light, 
Each  to  his  horse  and  mounting,  rode 

Over  the  hill  the  way  he  went, 
The  outline  of  his  figure  showed 

His  recklessness  and  rash  intent; 
And  lest  he  overtake  the  foe 

Or  rush  into  their  ambuscade, 
They  hurried  fast  as  horse  could  go 

To  be  in  time  with  ready  aid. 

Faster  and  faster,  on  he  flew, 
Faster  and  faster  they  pursue, 
But  all  in  vain,  they  saw  him  fall, 

Pierced  by  arrows  and  by  spear, 
His  soul  passed  out  beyond  recall 

As  kindly  help  was  drawing  near. 


73 


WASHAKIE 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  night 
Was  darkening  the  mountain  side 
When  they  returned  with  him  who  died 
While  life  was  new  and  hope  was  bright. 
They  laid  him  in  his  father's  tent 

Who  beckoned  them  to  leave  it  so, 
As  o'er  the  lifeless  form  he  bent 

Convulsed  by  death's  untimely  blow; 
The  watchers  passing  in  the  night, 
Must  not  appear  before  his  sight, 
Must  not  intrude  upon  the  grief 
That  overwhelms  their  mighty  chief. 

"My  noble  boy!  my  brave,  dead  son! 

Hope  of  my  tribe,  hope  of  your  sire! 
Could  you  forgive  my  hasty  ire, 

Could  I  atone  the  evil  done, 
How  gladly  would  I  die  for  thee, 

Would  meet  the  arrows  of  the  foe, 
The  same  that  pierced  and  laid  thee  low, 

But  woe  is  me,  yea,  woe  is  me." 

Lamented  brave  chief,  Washakie. 


74 


WASHAKIE 

"I  taught  you  how  to  bend  the  bow, 

To  speed  the  arrow  straight  and  true, 
To  love  your  tribe  as  they  loved  you, 

And  lead  them  on  against  the  foe; 
They  would  have  gladly  followed  thee 

Had  they  thy  reckless  intent  known 
Of  fighting  with  the  foe  alone; 

Woe  is  me,  woe  is  me." 
Wailed  the  brave  chief,  Washakie. 

"Flesh  of  my  flesh,  soul  of  my  soul, 

Your  life  was  just  as  much  of  mine 
As  is  the  branch  unto  the  pine 

O'er  which  the  mighty  tempests  roll; 
The  branch  is  broken  from  the  tree 

Which  mourns  for  its  dismembered  limb 
That  cannot  be  restored  to  him; 

For  woe  is  me,  yea,  woe  is  me." 
Sadly  wailed  brave  Washakie. 

"The  eyes  are  closed  that  flashed  with  fire. 

The  gaping  wounds,  that  felt  the  dart 
Go  through  the  palpitating  heart, 

Gave  death  to  thee,  and  to  your  sire 
Have  caused  his  fondest  hopes  to  flee; 

The  tongue  is  still  that  once  could  bribe 
The  homage  of  our  mighty  tribe; 

Woe  is  me,  woe  is  me." 
Still  mourned  the  brave  chief,  Washakie. 


75 


WASHAKIE 

All  the  night  with  bended  head 
The  sad  chief  waited  with  his  dead, 
Mourning  the  lonely  hours  away, 
Until  the  sky  was  tinged  with  gray; 
The  warriors,  guarding  well  his  tent, 
Heard  him  through  the  night  lament, 
But  none  were  bold  enough  to  dare 
Encroach  upon  his  presence  there, 
Nor  speak  while  gliding  to  and  fro 
Lest  they  disturb  him  in  his  woe. 

But  when  the  sun  had  risen  high, 

He  ventured  forth  like  one  in  age, 
And  gazed  intently  at  the  sky 

As  though  it  would  his  pangs  assuage; 
His  feeble  voice  bespoke  the  grief 

That  like  an  arrow  tore  apart 
All  semblance  of  their  mighty  chief, 

And  left  him  with  a  broken  heart; 
His  eyes  bedimmed  with  sorrow's  blight, 

No  longer  blazed  with  fervid  glow; 
His  hair  so  black  but  yesternight, 

At  morn  is  like  the  new-born  snow. 


76 


THE   PROSPECTOR 

sun  swings  low,  but  its  bright  glow 
Illumes  with  a  mellow  light 
The  mountain  peaks  with  golden  streaks, 

Ere  he  sinks  and  hides  from  sight. 
Here  all  alone  in  a  world  my  own, 

I  live  far  away  from  strife, 
Lured  by  the  gold  these  mountains  hold 
And  for  which  I  stake  my  life. 

I  do  not  sigh,  as  years  pass  by 

Like  clouds  that  near  me  roll; 
But  fondly  grope  in  the  ray  of  hope 

That  lights  up  my  lonely  soul; 
My  star  still  gleams,  in  all  my  dreams, 

O'er  the  spot  I  deem  most  fair, 
And  I  know,  I  know  by  its  fervent  glow 

That  the  gold,  my  gold  is  there. 

When  hunger  gnaws  to  make  me  pause 

And  my  tightened  belt  won't  hold; 
Relief  comes  sure  in  the  magic  lure 

And  the  certainty  of  gold, — 
Gold — gold  that  lies  with  covered  eyes 

In  the  grip  of  Creation's  might, 
And  will  only  wake  when  I  crush  and  break 

The  folds  that  hold  it  tight. 


77 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

With  saddened  look,  my  youth  forsook 

The  scenes  of  my  earthly  stage; 
Likewise  my  prime  passed  on  in  time, 

And  left  me  the  cares  of  age; 
I  plod  along  with  hope  still  strong 

That  the  next  blast  will  unfold 
To  my  anxious  eyes,  the  wealth  that  lies 

My  gold,  my  gold,  my  gold. 


78 


THE   MAN    THAT   FAILS 

T  GIVE  a  toast  to  him  that  strives 
•*•       For  better  things  in  life, 
By  sailing  out  on  seas  of  doubt 

From  shores  of  want  and  strife; 
And  should  his  ship  go  down  before 

The  fury  of  the  gale, 
I  honor  him  as  much  or  more 

Than  one  who  does  not  fail. 

Here's  to  the  man  of  dauntless  mien, 

With  courage  to  do  and  dare 
The  flight  sublime  from  want  and  crime 

And  poverty's  cold  stare; 
Though  from  the  valley  of  unrest 

The  plucky  fellow  hails, 
I  like  him  if  he  does  his  best 

E'en  though  his  effort  fails. 

The  heart  that  beats  with  discontent 

In  some  poor  fellow's  breast 
Is  not  to  blame  because  its  aim 

Is  freedom  from  unrest; 
And  if  it  struggles  from  the  gloom 

That  hides  it  in  its  veil, 
Let  us  be  kind  and  give  it  room 

So  that  it  may  not  fail. 


79 


THE  MAN  THAT  FAILS 

Real  courage  wins  our  fond  applause 

No  matter  where  'tis  found, 
The  voice  of  praise  attend  its  ways 

Above  and  under  ground; 
Just  so  unselfish  deeds  impel 

The  doer  to  prevail; 
The  hearty  effort  pleases  well 

E'en  though  the  actor  fail. 

But  what  of  him,  the  idle  knave, 

Who  sits  and  vents  his  hate 
For  those  who  strive  to  keep  alive 

Ambition's  worthy  trait, 
And  frowns  when  these  would  cut  the  thong 

That  holds  them  in  life's  vale; 
And  when  he  sees  things  going  wrong, 

Laughs  loud  because  they  fail. 

The  bravest  are  the  men  who  go 

Where  others  dare  not  try, 
Who  look  for  life  where  death  is  rife 

In  mines,  where  strong  men  die 
Beneath  the  overhanging  rock, 

Or  gases  that  prevail; 
Unmindful  of  the  awful  shock — 

They  go — and  sometimes  fail. 


80 


THE  MAN  THAT  FAILS 

The  man  that  leads  a  mighty  host 

In  warfare's  bloody  game, 
Is  not  more  brave  than  those  who  save 

Their  brothers,  without  fame; 
And  those  who  venture  in  the  dark 

On  danger's  unseen  trail, 
Deserve  much  more  fair  Glory's  mark 

Although  they  often  fail. 

So  here's  to  heroes  underground, 

The  living  and  the  dead, 
Whose  only  aim  in  life's  hard  game 

Was  but  to  forge  ahead; 
And  though  they  never  reached  the  goal 

Toward  which  they  fondly  sailed, 
Still  I  admire  each  plucky  soul 

That  tried  to  win  but  failed. 


81 


ROCK   SPRINGS 

WRITTEN  AT  EVANSTON 

"DEHOLD  a  city  in  the  highlands 
"*-^     Of  Wyoming's  bare  and  dry  lands. 
A  child  of  industry;  her  birth 
Was  lowly  like  the  poor  of  earth, 
And  as  she  grew  in  strength  and  pride 
Her  wants  were  lovingly  supplied 
By  labor's  hand.     She  now  obeys 
Its  mandate,  and  the  debt  repays. 

Not  for  sky-scrapers,  iron-framed 
And  rock-cemented,  is  she  famed; 
No  grand  cathedrals  raise  their  spires 
To  catch  the  songs  of  angel  choirs; 
Nor  does  sweet  Agriculture's  worth 
Find  lodgment  in  her  unkind  earth; 
But  scattered  o'er  her  barren  soil 
Are  humble  homes  of  men  of  toil, 
As  dear  to  them  and  just  as  fair 
As  homes  more  favored  other  where. 
She's  nothing  but  a  wild-west  town 
From  former  wildness  sobered  down 
To  modern  manners;  yet  a  trace 
Of  old  life  marks  her  hardy  face. 


82 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Here's  Bitter  Creek;  an  empty  thing 
Save  when  the  melting  snow  in  spring 
Rolls  madly  down  the  mountain's  side 
And  fills  its  channel  deep  and  wide. 
At  times  it  nearly  overflows 
With  dirty  water,  as  it  goes 
Beyond  the  home  of  Noah  Walters 
Where  it  for  a  moment  falters 
To  proudly  view  Jock  Noble's  castle 
Before  it  starts  to  fight  and  wrestle 
With  old  bottles,  cans,  and  sundries 
Certain  men  throw  in  on  Sundays, 
Mondays,  Tuesdays  and  on  all  days 
When  they're  drinking — which  is  always; 
On  it  goes — its  filthy  charges 
Dash  against  old  Uncle  George's 
House  on  stilts,  from  which  it  dodges 
Past  the  stable  of  Frank  Hodges', 
By  Woll  Dickson's  humble  dwelling; 
Chopping,  grinding,  booming,  swelling, 
Curling,  whirling,  onward  ever 
Till  it  flows  into  Green  River. 


83 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

O,  Classic  Creek!  rich  in  tradition 
Of  tragedy  and  superstition; 
Your  yearly,  reckless  inundation 
Provides  the  means  of  sanitation; 
Besides,  the  Lord  knows  very  well 
When  you  have  purged  yourself  of  smell 
And  other  things  that  much  displease 
You've  freed  the  town  of  foul  disease. 
How  many  men  have  you  beheld, 
Who  in  outlawry  bold  excelled, 
Fall  victim  to  another's  aim 
Without  disclosing  once,  his  name? 
With  you  the  bad  man — feared  and  hated 
By  all  the  world — originated, 
Flourished,  fell  and  passed  away 
When  law  assumed  her  righteous  sway. 

The  mountains  in  the  distance  rise 
In  barren  grandeur  to  the  skies; 
The  nearer  foot-hills  old  and  gray 
Like  billows  seem  to  bend  and  sway 
Whenever  storms  sweep  o'er  the  plain 
With  neither  snow  nor  kindly  rain. 
But  on  their  wings  instead  they  bear 
Huge  clouds  of  sand  which  fill  the  air, 
The  houses,  nooks,  and  every  space 
That  can  afford  a  lodging  place. 


84 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Sometimes  it  blows  until  the  land 
Seems  one  vast  world  of  moving  sand — 
The  playthings  of  the  wind  that  roars 
And  piles  it  up  around  the  doors, 
Like  snow-drifts  on  a  wintry  day 
When  blizzards  rage  and  shriek  dismay. 
"It  doesn't  always  blow  this  way," 
The  cute  old  pioneer  will  say 
When  asked  about  this  sandy  curse: 
"Sometimes,"  he  says,  "It  blows  much  worse." 

But  you  have  many  sunny  days 
That  fill  your  sky  with  mellow  haze 
And  charm  the  senses  with  a  spell 
Your  people  know  and  love  so  well 
And  O!  the  nights,  the  nights  in  June 
Made  matchless  by  a  gracious  moon, 
Flooding  the  land  until  it  seems 
Mid-day  without  its  glinting  beams; 
A  cloudless  sky,  an  atmosphere 
Through  which  the  lovely  stars  appear 
Nearer,  clearer,  and  more  fair 
And  larger  here  than  anywhere. 


* 

85 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

The  centuries  of  wind  and  sand 
Have  carved  as  with  a  magic  hand 
Upon  the  rocks,  unique  designs 
Artistic  in  their  queer  outlines. 
Wind-swept  and  old,  yet  they  will  stand 
Like  monuments  upon  the  land; 
And  there  they'll  be  when  Time  has  told 
That  all  the  waiting  years  have  rolled 
Into  eternity's  vast  deep 
Where  centuries  and  ages  sleep. 

Beneath  the  rocks,  far,  far  below 

Two  thousand  human  beings  go 

Each  day,  each  busy  working  day 

With  lamps  to  light  them  on  the  way 

To  their  black  chambers,  where  the  coal 

Awaits  the  heavy  blast  to  roll 

In  broken  fragments  from  the  vein 

Which  loathes  to  part  with  e'en  a  grain. 

But  these  brave  men,  white-skinned,  and  strong 

Of  faith  that  right  will  conquer  wrong — 


86 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Have  heard  necessity's  low  call 
And  heeding  it  are  one  and  all 
Keen  for  the  task  the  day  demands 
In  labor  at  their  horny  hands. 
Not  heavy-hearted  men;  I  know 
For  I  worked  with  them  years  ago; 
No,  no.     The  task  which  must  be  done 
By  each,  is  cheerfully  begun 
And  finished  with  a  song  that  tends 
To  ease  the  labor  as  it  ends. 

Ye  brothers  of  the  underground, 

God-like,  erect,  and  brave  and  bold; 

I  greet  you  with  a  joy  profound, 

In  memory  of  days  of  old, 

When  life  with  us  was  bright  and  new 

And  I  was  counted  one  with  you. 

And  think  ye  I  will  e'er  forget 

The  old  days  that  are  living  yet? 

No,  no,  brave  hearts,  it  cannot  be 

While  Time's  torch  brightly  burns  for  me. 


87 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

I've  heard  a  collier's  simple  song 

Ring  sweetly  through  the  darkened  space, 
Bearing  a  message,  clear  and  strong, 

Of  courage  to  his  toiling  race. 
The  melody,  the  sentiment, 
Each  to  the  other  color  lent, 
Which,  with  a  mellow  voice,  combined 
To  cheer  and  comfort  all  his  kind. 
'Twas  when  the  charge  had  been  exploded, 
The  coal  was  ready  to  be  loaded, 
And  he  was  waiting  for  a  car 
To  fill  and  then  send  out  afar 
To  markets,  where  they  must  have  coal 
To  make  the  wheels  of  commerce  roll. 
The  song — when  he  began  to  sing — 
Seemed  such  a  simple  little  thing, 
Yet  had  the  power  to  make  one  feel 
A  satisfying  comfort  steal 
Into  the  heart — a  conscious  pride 
In  those  who  labored  at  his  side; 
It  made  one  think  and  then  resolve 
That  when  misfortune  did  involve 
A  brother  in  its  tightening  coil 
He'd  help  him  with  his  fruits  of  toil; 
And  when  it  ended  soft  and  low 
I  felt  a  kindly  spirit  glow 
Within  the  chambers  of  my  breast 
And  free  my  soul  of  its  unrest. 


88 


ROCK  SPRINGS 
SONG 

When  we  think  that  life's  frail  bubble 

May  at  any  moment  burst, 
Ending  all  our  earthly  trouble 

With  the  hopes  and  joys  we've  nursed; 
We  should  not  forget  the  neighbor 

Whose  best  days  are  past  and  gone; 
Who  has  not  the  strength  to  labor, 

Nor  the  courage  to  press  on. 

Courage,  boys,  and  do  not  falter 

On  the  road  that  leads  ahead; 
There's  a  joy  at  duty's  altar 

Waiting,  when  our  course  is  sped; 
Onward — helping  one  another 

Till  we  pass  life's  last  sharp  stone, 
Heedful  of  the  needing  brother 

Whose  sad  fate  may  be  our  own. 

Cheer  up,  lads,  there'll  come  a  morrow 

With  a  gift  of  joy  for  you, 
Severing  the  cord  of  sorrow 

Which  has  long  been  held  in  view; 
Keep  the  lamp  of  hope  still  burning 

In  the  window  of  the  soul, 
So  that  when  from  trouble  turning 

We  may  plainly  see  the  goal. 


89 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Day  after  day  in  this  old  town, 
The  trips  run  swiftly  up  and  down, 
Bringing  the  coal  from  pitchy  night 
Into  the  broad  and  open  light; 
Taking  the  empty  cars  again 
Into  the  darkness  where  the  men 
Struggle  and  strain  and  fume  and  sweat 
For  every  dollar  that  they  get. 
For  them  there  is  no  "easy  street," 
Nor  any  way,  whereby  to  beat 
The  collier's  rugged,  hard  wrought  game, 
Save  by  good  work  and  steady  aim. 
The  money  paid  to  them  all  goes 
Into  a  channel,  where  it  flows 
A  golden  stream  of  wealth  and  joy 
Which  no  one  could  or  would  destroy. 
The  merchant,  business-like  and  bold, 
Goes  fishing  in  the  stream  for  gold, 
Nodding  and  smiling  at  kindly  fate, 
Holding  his  bargains  up  for  bait, 
That  women  passing  by,  might  look, 
And  nibble  at  the  luring  hook; 
The  butcher,  clean  and  wide  awake 
Catches  his  share  by  means  of  steak. 
And  then,  the  ever  smiling  grocer 
With  always  "Yes,  sir,"  never  "No,  sir," 
Standing  among  his  choicest  wares 
Busily  takes  his  wonted  shares. 


90 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

The  motion  picture  show  inclines 
To  part  the  children  from  their  dimes. 
The  savings  bank  takes  in  some  gear 
And  pays  you  four  per  cent  per  year, 
But  when  the  same  by  it  is  lent 
It  charges  eight  to  ten  per  cent. 
The  tin-horn  closeted  somewhere 
Is  busy  raking  in  his  share; 
The  young,  the  old,  against  his  game 
Go  rather  strong,  but  quit  it  lame. 
There  stands  the  ever  shining  star 
Behind  the  richly  mirrored  bar; 
White-aproned,  clean  and  all  attention, 
Prepared  for  anything  you  mention; 
He  with  his  new-coined  jokes  beguiles 
His  customers  with  fetching  smiles; 
He  gets  his  share — they  get  their  fill — 
What  once  was  their's  goes  in  his  till; 
What  once  was  his,  goes — pass  it  o'er — 
Next  morn  they've  none,  but  he  has  more. 


91 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Many  have  prospered  in  a  way 
That  means  forgiveness  on  that  day 
When  he  who  rules — the  Judge  and  King 
Will  welcome  them,  while  angels  sing. 
Others  prospered  because  their  creed 
Embraced  the  realm  of  sordid  greed, 
And  while  obeying  its  demands 
Gathered  the  wealth  with  dirty  hands; 
Secured  in  this  they  now  would  win 
Forgiveness  for  committed  sin, 
With  saintly  looks,  and  saintly  speech 
As  vehicles  on  which  to  reach 
The  promised  land,  where  angels  throng 
To  chant  God's  praise  in  heavenly  song. 

Some  have  prospered,  not  in  wealth, 
But  in  the  glow  of  rosy  health 
Pursue  the  tenor  of  their  way 
In  happiness  from  day  to  day. 
And  these  are  happier  than  those 
Whose  greedy  arts  at  once  disclose 
A  selfishness  that  does  not  shame 
When  decency  proclaims  her  name. 


92 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

I  like  the  money — I  like  the  jingle 

Of  golden  eagles,  double,  single, 

Any  way,  just  so  it  tinkle 

And  make  my  eyes  with  pleasure  twinkle. 

I  like  to  earn  it,  feel  it,  spend  it, 

That's  why  I  can't  afford  to  lend  it. 

Real  fun  is  gained  in  proper  spending 

Not  in  grasping,  hoarding,  lending, 

But  in  parting  with  the  treasure 

For  a  bargain  labeled  ''Pleasure/' 

Still  I  admit  that  discontent 

Comes  o'er  me  when  I've  not  a  cent 

To  purchase  for  my  appetite 

The  things  in  which  it  would  delight; 

But  gold  while  charming  to  the  eyes 

Will  not  buy  seats  in  Paradise; 

Will  not  buy  sleep,  nor  rosy  health: 

Such  joys  don't  always  come  with  wealth. 

But  never  mind— I  like  Rock  Springs, 

The  industry  that  sweats  and  sings; 

The  coiling  rope,  the  merry  hum 

It  makes  in  winding  round  the  drum; 

The  men,  the  women,  young  and  old 

Who  make  and  spend  the  hard-earned  gold; 

The  mines,  the  hills,  the  wind,  the  sand, 

And  more  than  all— the  good,  glad  hand 

Extended  by  the  friends  of  yore 

When  I  am  in  their  midst  once  more. 


93 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

She'll  be  a  happy,  good  old  town 
So  long  as  trips  run  up  and  down 
The  deep,  black  slopes  in  grim  array, 
Bringing  the  coal  from  night  to  day; 
Keeping  the  men  at  work  below 
That  market  fires  may  redly  glow 
In  forge  and  furnace,  near  and  far, 
Wherever  labor's  children  are. 

What  can  destroy  the  fair  renown 
That  hovers  o'er  this  busy  town, 
Which  pictures  in  its  hissing  steam 
Prosperity's  delightful  dream? 
Should  hatred  flaunt  its  grim  ensign 
Above  each  busy  working  mine, 
And  silence  reign  instead  of  noise 
We'd  see  the  end  of  all  her  joys, 
Her  wealth,  her  pride,  her  lofty  station, 
Would  soon  relapse  to  desolation. 
The  trouble  in  a  town  commences 
Whene'er  the  people  lose  their  senses, 
And  started  once  the  Lord  knows  when 
Peace  will  return  to  it  again. 


94 


ROCK  SPRINGS 

Let  reason  occupy  her  throne 
And  give  to  every  man  his  own, 
And  nothing  more  and  nothing  less; 
And  children  will  arise  and  bless 
The  name  of  those  at  whose  command 
Arose  the  mart  for  labor's  hand. 

We  fondly  hope  that  God  will  guide, 

And  keep  her  people  satisfied, 

And  happy  in  a  destiny 

That  leaves  them  prosperous  and  free. 


95 


DENNIS  WATERS 

\X7HEN  some  one  shall  write  the  story 

Of  Wyoming's  humble  birth; 
Of  her  past  and  present  glory 

Which  is  known  throughout  the  earth  ;- 
Of  her  sons  and  lovely  daughters 

Who  acclaim  her  of  the  best, 
Let  the  name  of  Dennis  Waters 

Be  enrolled  among  the  rest. 

Not  because  of  deeds  of  valor 

Wrought  upon  the  gory  field, 
Where  grim  death  with  ghastly  pallor 

Penetrates  the  brightest  shield; 
For  my  hero  is  no  soldier, 

But  with  sunshine  and  with  mirth, 
He  bears  lightly  on  each  shoulder 

All  the  troubles  of  this  earth. 


96 


DENNIS  WATERS 

Life  is  full  of  sunshine,  plenty 

To  dispel  man's  ev'ry  gloom; 
Yet  there  isn't  one  in  twenty 

Who  can  take  and  give  it  room; 
But  with  Dennis  it's  his  treasure, 

Tis  in  fact  his  banking  roll, 
With  it  he  distributes  pleasure 

Satisfying  to  the  soul. 

God  bless  Dennis,  may  he  ever 

Smile  the  clouds  of  grief  away; 
May  his  happy,  glad  endeavor 

Meet  with  recompense  each  day; 
Bless  old  Ireland  for  giving 

Such  a  gentle  spirit  birth, 
Who  has  found  the  art  of  living 

In  the  avenues  of  mirth. 


97 


SIMPLE  JOE 

TVTAY,  nay,  you  must  not  chide  the  lad 
•^^      Nor  twit  his  poverty  of  mind; 
The  truth  is,  he  is  not  as  bad 

As  those  who  are  to  him  unkind; 
If  you  should  pat  his  head,  and  speak 

To  him  as  you  would  to  a  friend 
You'd  see  the  pallor  on  each  cheek 

With  pleasureable  color  blend. 

True  he  is  simple — like  a  child 

He  plays  all  day  with  childish  things; 
His  lonely  hours  are  thus  beguiled 

With  that  to  which  his  fancy  clings; 
For  he  is  neither  boy  nor  man — 

Though  grown  in  size  to  man's  estate - 
And  has  not  power  to  even  scan 

The  vagaries  of  unkind  fate. 

Sometimes  he'll  wander  all  alone 

To  places  far  out  of  his  way, 
Where,  in  an  atmosphere  his  own, 

He  passes  aimlessly  the  day 
Among  the  flowers,  or  chasing  bees 

That  sip  the  honey  they  contain; 
Seeming  as  though  he  looked  on  these 

As  enemies  in  his  domain. 


98 


SIMPLE  JOE 

He  never  speaks,  nor  does  he  heed 

The  voice  that  beckons  him  away, 
Unless  it  be  the  voice  of  need 

Which  summons  him  to  meals  each  day; 
And  at  such  time  it's  understood, 

That  he  is  near  to  someone's  bin 
Having  collected  coal  and  wood, 

Waiting,  ready  to  bring  it  in. 

Somehow  he  seems  to  know  right  well 

He  ought  to  work  for  what  he  gets, 
In  this  does  he  more  than  excel 

The  lordly  idler,  who  besets 
Society,  and  does  not  toil 

Nor  do  a  thing,  whereby  to  earn 
E'en  the  respect  of  those  who  moil 

With  lamps  that  ever  dimly  burn. 

Harmless?     Why,  sir,  he  wouldn't  harm 

A  living  thing  God  placed  on  earth; 
To  him  all  creatures  have  a  charm 

Which  makes  them  seem  of  double  worth; 
Besides,  he's  welcome  everywhere, 

In  any  house  he  wants  to  go; 
However  scanty  be  the  fare 

There's  always  some  for  simple  Joe. 


99 


SIMPLE  JOE 

He  wasn't  this  way  from  his  birth, 

No,  no.     Once  he  was  just  as  bright 
As  any  lad  upon  this  earth, 

Appreciating  with  delight 
The  comradeship  of  kindred  souls 

Who  labored  in  the  mines  each  day; 
And  in  those  gas-infested  holes 

He  was  at  home,  as  much  as  they. 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  day  they  brought 

Him  out,  and  laid  him  on  the  bed; 
They  told  me  that  he  had  been  caught 

'Neath  falling  slate,  that  mashed  his  head; 
His  voice  returned  but  once  since  then, 

And  that  was  just  three  years  ago, 
When  an  awful  shock  brought  back  again 

Words  to  the  lips  of  Simple  Joe. 

Send  him  away  from  here,  you  say? 

Why,  man  alive,  do  you  not  know 
That  when  he  gained  his  voice  that  day 

It  was  to  save  the  men  below? 
You  didn't?     Well,  then  list  to  me, 

The  story  I'll  tell  in  a  breath, 
You'll  then  learn  why  it  is  that  we 

Will  keep  poor  Joe  until  his  death. 


100 


SIMPLE  JOE 

'Twas  summer  time  when  this  occurred, 

I  was  the  engineer,  and  so 
The  very  first  to  hear  the  word 

That  made  us  all  love  Simple  Joe; 
Aye  made  us  all;  for  until  then 

Our  women  e'en  made  it  a  rule 
As  well  as  little  boys,  and  men, 

To  think  of  Joe  as  but  a  fool. 

The  morning  whistle  blew  its  blast, 
The  miners  went  to  work  below, 

With  hopes  the  warm  sunshine  would  last 
To  cheer  them  in  the  evening's  glow; 

The  engine  groaned  as  out  it  tossed 

The  used-up  steam  from  its  exhaust. 

Like  clock-work  all  was  going  well. 
Responsive  to  the  signal  bell 
The  trips  were  rushing  to  and  fro 
Out  and  in  to  the  depths  below; 
And  workmen  came  to  me  to  say 
We'd  make  a  record  hoist  that  day. 


101 


SIMPLE  JOE 

My  eye  was  centered  on  the  bell 
Which  plainly  said  that  all  was  well, — 
When,  glancing  toward  the  open  door 
I  saw  a  face  as  ghastly  white 
As  snow  upon  a  moonlit  night, 
Seeming  as  though  it  did  implore 
Attention  from  someone  who'd  know 
That  trouble  prompted  Simple  Joe. 

Into  the  engine  house  he  came. 

His  face  ghost-like,  it  seemed  with  fear, 
And  without  calling  me  by  name, 

He  shouted  loudly,  "Engineer! 
Engineer!  The  Whistle!  Blow! 

Quickly  warn  the  men  below! 
See  the  fan-shaft  all  aflame!" 

He  did  not  utter  one  word  more, 
And  gasping  fell  upon  the  floor 
A  helpless  mass.   At  first  I  turned 
To  where  the  fan-shaft  fiercely  burned, 
And  saw  the  smoke  and  embers  roll 
And  twist  and  curl  beyond  control; 
Then  back  I  went  the  quickest  way 
And  made  the  whistle  shriek  dismay; 
Then  to  the  telephone  I  ran 
And  bade  the  drivers  tell  each  man 
To  hasten  out  before  the  smoke 
Into  the  main  air  current  broke. 


102 


SIMPLE  JOE 

When  Simple  Joe  beheld  the  men 

In  safety  from  the  mine  appear, 
He  smiled,  but  never  spoke  again 

Though  urged  by  every  miner  here; 
Our  supper  o'er,  that  very  night 

We  held  a  meeting  in  the  hall, 
Where  in  the  fullness  of  delight 

The  men  and  women,  one  and  all 
With  heart-felt  gratitude  declared 

Upon  our  oaths,  come  weal  or  woe, 
No  matter  how  we  later  fared, 

We'd  share  our  lot  with  Simple  Joe, 


103 


TO   MY   DAUGHTER 

On  the  death  of  her  friend,  age  11  years. 

"W'OUR  very  best  friend  is  gone,  my  dear, 
•*•        Is  gone  on  a  summer's  vacation; 
Is  gone  from  the  strife  and  troubles  of  life 
To  a  pleasant er  habitation. 

She  has  closed  her  books  and  said  goodbye 
To  loved  ones  so  kind  and  devoted; 

But  you  must  not  weep  nor  disturb  her  sleep, 
For  Vina,  my  dear,  is  promoted. 

The  flowers  will  bloom  and  fade  and  die, 
The  years  come  and  go  in  rotation, 

But  still  to  the  end  your  very  best  friend 
Will  remain  on  her  pleasant  vacation. 


104 


IN  MEMORY    OF  DAVID   M.  ELIAS 

STATE  INSPECTOR  OF  MINES 

Killed  in  the  second  of  two  explosions  that  occurred  in  No.  1 
Mine  at  Hanna,  Wyo.,  March  28,  1908,  while  leading  a  rescue 
party  to  recover  the  bodies  of  those  killed  in  the  first  disaster. 


TV/TV  friend  is  dead.     Life's  curtain  fell 
-"-*•     While  he  was  busy  on  the  stage, 
Performing  parts  that  he  knew  well 

Would  much  of  sorrow's  pangs  assuage. 
Killed  in  a  mine.     Obeying  the  voice 

Of  mercy  and  the  widow's  prayer, 
Responding  to  duty,  not  from  choice 

Did  he  become  a  martyr  there. 

We  grew  together  to  man's  estate, 

Till  fifty  years  had  passed  us  by; 
Hopefully  plodding  along,  when  fate 

Decreed  that  one  of  us  should  die; 
He  was  the  one — it  had  to  be— 

I  to  remain  unto  the  end— 
Until  the  summons  comes  to  me 

To  go  and  join  my  life-long  friend. 


105 


IN  MEMORY  OF  DAVID  M.  ELIAS 

Did  friendship  end  when  death's  cold  hand 

Upon  his  noble  brow  was  laid 
Bursting  the  warm  and  tender  band 

That  years  of  comradeship  have  made? 
Or,  does  the  golden  thread  extend 

Across  the  chasm  of  despair; 
I  still  holding  to  my  end 

He  still  holding  his  end  there. 

Imbued  with  honor's  sterling  worth 

From  precepts  taught  to  him  in  youth; 
He  knew  no  nobleness  of  birth 

Save  what  is  born  of  royal  truth; 
Loving  his  home,  his  fellowmen, 

His  God,  and  this,  his  native  soil, 
And  if  he  hated,  it  was  when 

Some  creature  sneered  at  those  who  toil. 

I  saw  him  climb  through  envious  strife, 

Through  jealousies  and  endless  blame, 
Until  he  reached  a  plane  in  life 

Higher  than  that  from  which  he  came; 
This  collier's  son  whose  childhood  years 

Were  darkened  by  misfortune's  shade, 
Ne'er  once  forgot  his  toiling  peers 

Though  many  newer  friends  he  made. 


106 


IN  MEMORY  OF  DAVID  M.  ELIAS 

The  man  who  dies  and  does  not  leave 

An  enemy  among  mankind, 
While  living,  does  not  much  achieve 

And  dying,  leaves  not  much  behind. 
Man  must  be  strong  if  he  be  good, 

He  must  be  good  if  he  be  just, 
And,  if  in  life  for  these  he  stood, 

Someone,  in  death,  defames  his  dust. 

When  death,  with  sudden,  cruel  stroke, 

Struck  at  the  lives  of  those  he  knew, 
The  voice  of  duty  softly  spoke 

And  urged  and  told  him  what  to  do; 
Responsive  ever  to  her  call, 

He  hastily  prepared  to  go, 
Hoping  that  death  had  not  struck  all 

Who  worked  that  day  in  the  mine  below. 

Into  the  depth  of  that  horrid  slope, 

Which  thrice  in  fury's  grasp  had  flamed, 
He  calmly  went,  in  fervent  hope 

To  rescue  those  death  had  not  claimed; 
Strong  men,  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 

Tested  and  tried  in  other  years, 
But  with  one  thought — and  that  to  save — 

Attended  him  as  volunteers. 


107 


IN  MEMORY  OF  DAVID  M.  ELIAS 

His  task  was  just  begun;  below 

He  knew  death  lurked  with  visage  grim, 
Ready  to  strike  with  one  quick  blow 

Himself  and  those  who  dared  with  him; 
But  unafraid,  he  ventured  on— 

On  'mid  perils  everywhere, 
Looking  for  life — but  life  had  gone 

With  flames  that  burned  in  fury  there. 

How  it  happened  none  can  tell! 

Why  it  happened  none  will  know! 
With  him  a  host  of  brave  men  fell 

Under  the  force  of  that  hard  blow; 
The  widow's  prayers  will  not  avail, 

The  orphans  weep  and  vainly  yearn, 
For  like  a  ship  lost  in  a  gale, 

He's  gone — and  never  will  return. 

Oh!  what  would  we  do  if  hope's  bright  ray 

Should  vanish  from  the  human  breast, 
Leaving  the  trusting  soul  a  prey 

To  the  agony  of  doubt's  unrest? 
But  no!  it  gleams  like  a  brilliant  star 

Set  in  the  arch  of  heaven's  dome, 
Pointing  to  where  our  loved  ones  are 

And  leading  to  our  final  home. 


108 


THE  WHOLE   STORY 

Nolan  shot!   Dead  you  say! 
Killed  last  night  in  Baxter's  house? 
Well — men  should  never  get  too  gay, 
Nor  monkey  with  another's  spouse." 


TO  JAMES   NEEDHAM 

TJE  does  not  drink  nor  smoke  nor  chew, 
-*••*•     In  that  respect  he's  unlike  you; 
But  on  the  other  hand,  friend  Jim, 
You  do  not  lie  and  steal  like  him. 


TO   A   SUPERIOR   PERSON   SINGING 

SHE  turns  up  her  nose  when  she  sings, 
The  dear  little  musical  elf; 
It  cannot  be  others'  she  smells, 

So  the  odor  must  come  from  herself. 


109 


THE  MOUNTAIN  ASH  CHOIR 

leader  waved  his  magic  wand, 
And  lo,  there  rolled  as  from  his  hand 
A  flood  of  sweet,  melodic  notes 
From  bird-like  throats. 

The  melody  unhindered  stole 
Into  the  chambers  of  the  soul, 
And  glowed  until  to  it  was  given 
A  glimpse  of  heaven. 

O  singers  from  my  mother's  land 
Now  I  can  plainly  understand 
Why  those  who  leave  thy  hills  and  dales 
Still  yearn  for  Wales. 

Go  on,  Glyndur,  with  voice  and  heart 
Exemplify  your  matchless  art; 
The  echoes  of  your  tuneful  choir 
Will  raise  men  higher. 

Through  you  each  one  of  us  may  share 
The  joyful  message  which  you  bear 
To  brothers  on  these  western  trails 
Far,  far  from  Wales. 


no 


WELSH  SERVICE 

T  LIKE  the  old  Welsh  service, 
•*•     The  Congregation's  song 
That  fills  the  sacred  Temple 
With  music,  clear  and  strong. 

The  Master's  loving  message 
Conveyed  in  tuneful  art, 

Relieves  the  heavy  burden 
That  presses  on  the  heart. 


111 


THE   WORKMAN'S  VISION 

T  HEARD  the  shout  of  Labor 
•*•     Exulting  in  the  fray, 
The  gleam  of  its  bright  saber 

Flash  in  the  light  of  day; 
The  flag  it  proudly  followed 

To  Victory's  sweet  goal 
Is  now  enshrined  and  hallowed 

In  ev'ry  workman's  soul. 

No  blood  was  shed  in  fighting, 

No  hate  or  rage  was  felt, 
But  by  a  firm  uniting 

The  fatal  blow  was  dealt; 
And  stript  of  all  its  power 

The  Tyranny  of  Man 
Bewails  the  joyful  hour 

The  people's  reign  began. 

I  saw  the  great  procession 

March  with  a  purpose  grand, 
And  sweep  away  Oppression 

That  long  had  cursed  the  land; 
The  tyranny  of  ages 

No  longer  showed  its  head, 
And  on  the  world's  new  pages 

A  law  for  man  was  spread. 


112 


THE  WORKMAN'S  VISION 

I  heard  the  voices  singing 

A  new  and  glorious  song, 
That  ever  kept  on  ringing 

In  vibrance  clear  and  strong; 
It  proudly  told  the  story 

Of  struggles  in  the  past 
And  how  the  day  of  glory 

Had  dawned  on  them  at  last. 

I  saw  the  humble  cottage 

Partake  of  Comfort's  share 
The  toiler's  mess  of  pottage 

Grow  into  better  fare; 
And  he  no  longer  fawning 

At  Mammon's  ready  nod, 
Stood  under  heaven's  awning 

And  only  bowed  to  God. 

The  day  had  come  when  Reason 

Sat  on  the  throne  of  Might, 
And  banished  far  the  Treason 

That  had  opposed  the  Right; 
The  voice  becoming  stronger 

Proclaimed  its  righteous  cause, 
And  Tyranny  no  longer 

Could  stand  behind  the  laws. 


113 


THE  WORKMAN'S  VISION 

Oh!  hasten  Time,  and  banish 

The  evils  men  endure; 
Make  every  hardship  vanish 

Make  happiness  secure; 
Give  hope  and  strength  to  Labor, 

Uphold  it  in  the  fray, 
Till  all  who  wield  its  saber 

Shall  see  the  better  day. 


114 


"GOODBYE,  BILL" 

M.  C.  Barrow— "Bill  Barlow,"  Editor  of  "Sagebrush  Philosophy," 
a  magazine  of  sunshine,  died  October  9,  1910.  These  lines  were 
published  in  the  memorial  edition  of  said  magazine. 


TDILL  is  resting  in  the  valley, 
-"-^    And  the  constant  river  flows 
Through  its  rugged  rock-bound  alley, 

Which  it  widens  as  it  goes — 
Broadening  as  onward  sweeping 

O'er  the  pebbles  white  and  still 
Till  it  nears  where  he  is  sleeping; 

Then  it  murmurs:     "Goodbye,  Bill.1 

Goodbye,  Bill;  goodbye  forever. 

Rest  in  freedom  from  all  pain, 
Death,  which  intervenes  to  sever, 

Will  unite  us  all  again; 
Hope,  the  star  that  beams  with  glory, 

Sheds  its  rays  around  us  still, 
Maybe,  when  we  end  life's  story, 

We  can  whisper:     "Howdy,  Bill." 


115 


PROGRESS 

TltyTHEN  smiling  Progress  comes  along 

Bestowing  everywhere  a  favor; 
She  moves  the  patient,  waiting  throng 
To  emulate  her  gay  behavior. 

Wherever  Idleness  has  bound 

The  arm  inured  to  rugged  labor, 

The  galling  thong  is  quick  unwound 
Or  cut  in  two  by  her  sharp  saber. 

Old  Poverty  with  abject  mien, 

Repulsive  to  the  eye  of  gladness, 

Cannot  endure  her  cheerful  scene 

Which  will  not  brook  the  shade  of  sadness, 

For  plenty  follows  in  her  train, 

And  both  are  linked  unto  each  other; 

Whatever  tends  to  part  these  twain 
Hurts  labor,  their  dependent  brother. 


116 


WHEN    I   WAS   A   LAD 

TX7HEN  I  was  a  little  lad 

*  ^       Working  in  the  mine  with  dad, 
He  gave  me  an  easy  job 
Throwing  rubbish  in  the  gob; 
Or  I  helped  him  tamp  the  hole 
When  he  had  to  blast  the  coal, 
When  the  smoke  had  passed  away 
This  is  what  he  used  to  say: 

Come,  my  lad,  help  me  to  load 
For  the  driver's  on  the  road; 
If  we  would  full  wages  earn 
We  must  keep  up  with  the  turn. 

He  grew  old  as  I  grew  strong, 
Then  I  helped  him  more  along; 
I  gave  him  the  easy  job 
Throwing  rubbish  in  the  gob; 
But  the  time  soon  came  when  he 
Could  not  work  at  all  with  me, 
And  when  on  his  dying  bed 
This  is  what  the  old  man  said: 

Come,  my  lad,  help  me  to  load 
For  the  driver's  on  the  road; 
If  we  would  full  wages  earn 
We  must  keep  up  with  the  turn. 

117 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  LAD 

I  am  now  a  man  full  grown 
Having  children  of  my  own, 
One  of  them  a  sturdy  boy 
Works  and  fills  my  heart  with  joy; 
I  give  him  the  easy  job 
Throwing  rubbish  in  the  gob, 
And  somehow  throughout  the  day 
This  is  what  I  often  say: 

Come,  my  lad,  help  me  to  load 
For  the  driver's  on  the  road; 
If  we  would  full  wages  earn 
We  must  keep  up  with  the  turn. 


118 


SWEETHEART,  I   LOVE  YOU   SO 


tears  you  shed  at  parting, 
Are  like  the  magic  stone, 
Attracting  from  a  distance 

My  heart  unto  your  own; 

I  yet  can  see  them  glisten, 

Though  I  am  far  away, 

And  when  I  stoop  to  listen 

I  think  I  hear  you  say: 

Goodbye  my  love,  it  grieves  me 

To  part  with  you  today; 
It  seems  my  own  heart  leaves  me 

And  goes  with  you  away; 
Love  me  and  I  will  trust  you, 

No  matter  where  you  go, 
I  love  you,  darling,  just  you, 

Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so. 

The  night  breeze  soft  and  tender 

Blows  gently  from  the  sea, 
Wafting  upon  its  bosom 

An  image  dear  to  me; 
I  see  it  in  the  moon-beam 

That  dances  on  the  spray 
And  bending  down  to  listen 

I  still  can  hear  you  say: 


119 


SWEETHEART,  I  LOVE  YOU  SO 

They  tell  me  time  is  fleeting, 

So  quickly  does  it  fly; 
To  me  the  hours  pass  slowly 

And  will  not  hurry  by; 
When  loneliness  oppresses 

Your  image  comes  this  way, 
And  bending  down  to  listen 

I  yet  can  hear  you  say: 


120 


PRETTY   ANNIE  JONES 

'"pHERE'S  a  pretty  little  maiden 
•**      Living  in  a  shady  lane, 
Whose  cheeks  are  fairer  than  the  rose 

After  a  summer  rain; 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  merriment 

And  shine  like  stars  above, 
While  in  her  gentle  bosom  beats 

A  heart  full  of  true  love. 

Pretty  little  Annie,  light-hearted,  sweet  and  gay, 
Singing  like  a  merry  lark  on  a  summer's  day; 
Goodness  and  rare  beauty  is  all  the  wealth  she 

owns, 
But  she's  the  richest  girl  in  town — is  pretty 

Annie  Jones. 


121 


PRETTY  ANNIE  JONES 

I  labor  in  the  old  coal  mine 

From  early  morn  to  night, 
And  though  the  world  below  is  dark 

My  heart  is  ever  bright, 
For  in  the  little  shadows  that 

My  lamp  makes  in  that  place 
I  see  before  my  happy  eyes 

Sweet  Annie's  charming  face. 

The  earth  is  full  of  happiness, 

For  me  it  has  no  pain, 
There's  only  one  girl  in  the  world 

And  she  lives  in  the  lane; 
The  birds  cannot  outsing  her 

Nor  rival  her  sweet  tones, 
The  roses  cannot  be  more  fair 

Than  pretty  Annie  Jones. 


122 


THE   MINER'S   LULLABY 

'TSHE  miner's  wife  at  close  of  day, 
-**      Sings  softly  to  her  fretful  child, 
Who  weary  with  long  hours  of  play, 

Is  at  her  loving  breast  beguiled. 
The  sun  falls  down  in  golden  light 

Into  the  distant,  western  sea; 
And  Mamma  holding  baby  tight 

Sings  low  to  him  a  melody. 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  I  hear  the  water 

flowing, 

It  beats  itself  into  a  soft,  white  foam; 
Tootty-to,  Tootty-to,  I  hear  the  whistle 

blowing, 
It's  quitting  time  and  Papa'll  soon  be  home. 

The  day  has  been  a  busy  one 

For  Mamma  and  the  baby,  too, 
While  she  the  heavy  work  has  done 

He  played  about  as  children  do; 
At  last  worn  out,  he  takes  her  hand, 

And  leads  her  to  the  well-known  chair, 
And  she  obeying  his  command 

Sings  as  she  holds  and  rocks  him  there. 


123 


THE  MINER'S  LULLABY 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  I  hear  the  water 

flowing, 

It  beats  itself  into  a  soft,  white  foam; 
Tootty-to,  tootty-to,  I  hear  the  whistle 

blowing, 
It's  quitting  time  and  Papa'll  soon  be  home. 

When  Papa  comes  with  blackened  face, 

He  sees  his  darling  fast  asleep, 
Held  close  in  Mamma's  fond  embrace, 

While  o'er  them  evening  shadows  creep; 
And  bending  o'er  the  sleeping  form, 

He  kisses  him  with  grateful  joy, 
While  Mamma,  lest  the  touch  alarm, 

Sings  lowly  to  her  dreaming  boy. 

Hush-a-by,  hush-a-by,  I  hear  the  water 

flowing, 

It  beats  itself  into  a  soft,  white  foam; 
Tootty-to,  tootty-to,  I  hear  the  whistle 

blowing, 
It's  quitting  time  and  Papa'll  soon  be  home. 


124 


DON'T   BLOCK   THE  WHEELS  OF  JOY 

OOME  fellows  always  wear  a  frown 
^    And  worry  day  and  night; 
They  think  the  world  is  upside  down 

And  never  will  get  right; 
No  matter  what  they  say  or  do 

They  cannot  well  destroy 
The  cup  of  woe,  which  must  o'erflow 

And  block  their  wheels  of  joy. 

Don't  block  the  wheels  of  joy, 
Whatever  you  do,  old  boy; 
Conceal  all  dread  and  look  ahead 
See  gladness  in  the  sky  instead; 
The  world  is  full  of  joy 
So,  get  your  share,  old  boy; 
Just  frown  at  strife  and  laugh  with  life 
Don't  block  the  wheels  of  joy. 


125 


DON'T  BLOCK  THE  WHEELS  OF  JOY 

Your  working  place  perhaps  does  not 

Meet  with  your  full  regard; 
The  daily  grind  be  of  a  kind 

To  make  things  doubly  hard; 
Still  grumbling  will  not  ease  your  lot 

Nor  will  real  friendship  toy 
With  men  who  nurse  misfortune's  curse 

And  block  the  wheels  of  joy. 

Don't  let  your  mind  get  soaked  with  gloom, 

Don't  cultivate  despair; 
A  constant  frown  will  keep  you  down 

Upon  the  floor  of  care; 
Be  cheerful  and  you'll  find  that  friends 

Your  precept  will  employ; 
Look  up  and  smile  and  all  the  while 

You'll  oil  the  wheels  of  joy. 


126 


07 


